


New In Town

by Wrespawn



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Corpse Desecration, Death Threats, Guilt, Gun Violence, Interrogation, M/M, Manipulation, Temporary Character Death, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrespawn/pseuds/Wrespawn
Summary: Today is Trevor’s first day on the Los Santos police force.A respawn verse story.Warnings: Graphic gun violence, brief offensive language implying the following: sexual violence, misogyny, and homophobia.
Relationships: Jeremy Dooley/Gavin Free/Ryan Haywood/Michael Jones/Jack Pattillo/Geoff Ramsey, Trevor Collins/Alfredo Diaz
Comments: 114
Kudos: 304





	1. Chapter 1

The most dangerous days in Trevor’s life were the days he wore a shiny badge.

At night, downtown Los Santos was illuminated more by neon signs than it was by streetlights. Red and blue glinted off Trevor’s freshly-issued LSPD badge as he walked down the street with a mouth-burning cup of coffee. He couldn’t stop thumbing the badge, as though that would scratch the metal faster. He hated wearing a new badge. He couldn’t wait for that bright shine to fade.

At his hip, his com crackled.

_“Collins, come in.”_

Trevor shifted the steaming paper cup to his other hand and lifted the plastic mouthpiece. “This is Collins, I copy.”

_“Enjoying your first day in Los Santos, rookie?”_

Trevor sighed, his breath disturbing the coffee steam. It had taken him less than a day in this new city to start despising his coworkers. “I told you, I’m not a rookie. I’ve been on the force for years.”

_“Not in Los Santos you haven’t.”_

“Getting a transfer doesn’t make me a rookie again.”

_“In Los Santos it does. This city is a different beast. But hey, lovely weather, am I right? Bet the girls in your old town didn’t show as much skin.”_

Trevor sighed and sipped his coffee. Maybe if he just didn’t say anything, Stevens would take the hint and stop making small talk.

_“So why’d they transfer you? Were you diddling suspects?”_

Trevor almost choked on his coffee. He wiped scalding liquid off his mouth in disgust. “I— jesus, no. They didn’t transfer me as some kind of cover-up, I requested it.”

_“Yeah right. Well, whatever freaky shit you got in trouble for, just count me in whenever you’re feelin’ that itch again, haha!”_

Trevor leaned against a stained brick wall, nursing his coffee in such a way that his arm covered his shiny new police badge. Stevens had an amazing talent for making him feel like he needed a shower. “I’m telling you, seriously, I requested the transfer.” 

_“Yeah? All right, then, why’d you ask for it?”_

“Like you said.” Trevor sipped his coffee as a lone car rolled down the dark street. “The weather here is lovely.” 

It really was. The night was soft and balmy, with a light wind carrying the scent of the sea, along with a fascinating variety of less savory scents.

Stevens snorted. _“Ugh. I can handle you being a sicko, but don’t tell me you’re a prude. You’ll break my little heart.”_

The rev of a motorbike pulled Trevor’s attention to the mostly-quiet street: hardly a challenge, when Trevor’s attention was so desperate to get away from Stevens. He idly watched as the motorcyclist slowed and pulled up to the curb just a building away from him. Neon light glinted off his helmet.

_“So how’s the late shift treating you, Collins? Personally, I’m bored as hell. Here’s hoping you find a dead hooker soon.”_

The rider took his helmet off, then slipped something else onto his face. As he turned around, Trevor could see the man was wearing a mask.

A hockey mask, pale, with a vibrant green star.

Trevor blinked. “Weird fashion sense.”

Without a glance at Trevor, the man slipped down an alley between a half-constructed high rise and a bank. Trevor’s frown was growing. Something about the way the man moved looked like trouble.

“Hey, Stevens. Shut up a second.” Trevor kept his voice hushed, dropping his unsatisfying coffee in a trashcan and following the man. “I’ve got a shady looking character sneaking around the back of Credit and Commerce.”

_“Ah shit. If he’s got a can of spray paint, shove it up his ass. Description?”_

The alley closed around him, brick on one side, chain link fence and looming construction work on the other. Trevor followed the man as closely as he dared, sticking close to the wall of the bank. “Uh… tall guy.”

_“Thanks, that really narrows it down. Can you get me a face?”_

“Negative, he’s wearing a mask. Hence him looking shady.”

_“Well can you get me anything, Collins?”_

“Blue and black jacket, the hockey mask has a green star—”

_“Holy fucking shit, do not engage! Officer Collins, I repeat, do not engage!”_

Trevor froze against the brick wall. He could see the man vanish around the corner. “He’s alone and he doesn’t see me. With all due respect—“

_“Collins, that’s a member of the Fake AH Crew! We send full teams to deal with them! Clear out or you'll be his fucking midnight snack, you hear me?”_

“If he’s part of a criminal gang, isn’t that all the more reason for me to follow him?”

_“Did I stutter, Collins?”_

Trevor pulled the com away from his face with a wince. Stevens was hitting a volume and a pitch that would make a wine glass uneasy. 

“…Copy that,” Trevor lied. 

Disobeying orders on his first day at work wasn’t a great look. Then again, Stevens wasn’t his superior. Trevor cocked his gun and slowly followed the man. He was itching to get his new badge scratched up.

The scene behind the bank was a strange one. The tall man had been joined by a second man, almost a foot shorter and much more vibrantly dressed. This man’s hockey mask was shadowed by a white cowboy hat, his purple dress jacket mellowed by the dusky evening light as he fussed with a device in his hand. They cut a strange pair in the dingy concrete space among the drive-through ATM stalls. From this far away, Trevor couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see the holstered guns that both men were packing.

The sudden chatter of Trevor’s com almost made him jump out of his uniform.

_“I know you’re new in town, Collins, but how the fuck have you not heard of the Fakes?”_

Trevor rubbed a stressed hand over his eyes as he fumbled for his radio com. He lifted the plastic to his lips and tried to keep his voice hushed. “What’s the deal with these guys?”

_“They’re living nightmares. Cop-killers. Absolute madmen. I swear we’ve killed them before, but they keep showing up again. Some people think they’re not human.”_

Trevor raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Local cryptids, huh?”

_“The guy you saw, blue and black jacket, that’s the Vagabond. He’d wear a rookie like you as a condom. Might wanna start writing this down, Collins.”_

“Uh-huh. Hey, does one of them wear purple and a cowboy hat?”

_“Yeah, Rimmy Tim. Cocksucker’s basically a human firework with a sick sense of —“_

“Hey, Stevens, I’m gonna turn my radio off now.”

_“Why? Don’t like my bedroom voice?”_

“Your bedroom voice is dreadful, but really it’s because I ignored you and followed the guy.”

_“God fucking dammit Collins—!”_

Trevor clicked his radio off and turned his full attention to the strange pair of men.

Balmy wind rustled the chain link fence. The tall man looked around, scanning the gum-spotted concrete with the intensity of an automated turret. He snorted through his mask. 

“Seems like overkill to be doing this in uniform,” he grunted.

In the quiet of the night, Trevor could hear every word. He held his gun ready and listened.

The shorter man chuckled without looking up from the device. “Gratuitous creepy masks? I’m surprised you’re complaining.” 

“Not complaining, just observing.”

“Look, it’s just in case someone’s watching. And because we look good like this.”

“Mmh.” The tall man cast another slow look around them. “I hope someone’s watching.” 

Trevor ducked behind the brick corner before the hollow eyes of that mask could turn his way. 

“Aaand there we go.” From around the corner, Trevor could hear the mask-muffled voice of the shorter man. “Got the bug set. Let’s head home and—“

Something buzzed and _thunked_. Trevor’s stomach dropped even before he heard the messy thump of a dead body collapsing to the concrete. He knew what a silenced sniper shot sounded like. He risked a look around the brick corner.

The man in the purple jacket lay on the cracked asphalt, lifeless. A dark puddle that reflected the neon lights was swelling around him. The taller man was still upright, pressed behind one of the drive-through ATM stalls. 

“…Shit.” The man in the leather jacket let out a heavy breath, his masked face turning towards the dead body. “Damn it, Rimmy.”

Trevor looked at the body, then looked at what the living man considered to be shelter. If the shot had come from that angle, then the sniper must be… Trevor’s gaze followed an invisible thread through the air, an imaginary smoke trail. A four story building loomed next to the bank, still under construction. Big concrete holes gaped in the sides, a skeleton of scaffolding crusting over the walls. Any reasonably athletic person could jump the chain link fence and climb up the half-built floors for an easy shot at the lot behind the bank.

Trevor could see the remaining masked man touch his ear, probably turning on remote communication. 

“This is Vagabond, Rimmy Tim is down. There’s a sniper here.” The com chattered, but Trevor couldn’t make out the words. “You sure? I can kill him.”

Trevor clutched his gun to his pounding chest.

“…All right, fine.” The man slipped a gun out from under his jacket. “I’ll be home soon.”

Trevor snapped back around the corner before the man could look his way. He could hear footsteps, and they were getting closer. There was no time to flee without being seen.

Trevor held his breath. 

The Vagabond brushed past, silent as death, close enough that the air smelled like gunpowder and leather. He moved too softly for a man his size. For a few heartbeats, Trevor could have reached out and touched him.

For those heartbeats, Trevor believed every word that Stevens had said about the Vagabond.

Like a shadow, the man passed over him. Trevor held his breath until the footsteps had gone quiet. By the time he stepped out from behind cover, the pool of blood from the dead man had formed a thin stream that ran all the way to the gutter.

Trevor reached for his radio, then hesitated. He looked at the body, then looked up at the building where the sniper shot must have come from. A proper cop would call this in. Ignoring his radio, Trevor approached the half-finished high rise. He had a few more rules to break tonight.

The chain link fence rattled as he leapt over it. He hoped to god the Vagabond was out of earshot. 

The unfinished rooms were perilously dark. It was spooky enough on the ground floor, all bare plywood and spare nails. After Trevor ran up a few flights of stairs, the empty sky outside began to press around him. Trevor kept his gun drawn, keeping half his attention on the floor to watch for holes. Unfinished buildings tended to not have guard rails protecting visitors from two story drops, and the neon lights of the city didn’t reach this high.

“Hands in the air, cop.”

Trevor froze. Instead of obeying, he turned around, but he didn’t lift his gun.

A man stood in the shadows, a red bandana covering his face and a sniper rifle resting on his shoulder. Despite the threat in his voice, his gun was pointed at the ceiling. He pulled his bandana down, revealing a smile so bright it seemed to drive away the gloom.

“Damn, Trev, is that the LSPD uniform? It fits you _real_ nice.”

“Alfredo, jesus—“ Trevor stalked towards him, shoving his gun back in its holster. “You’ve gotta get out of here, this place is gonna be crawling with cops in a few minutes!”

“Relax, the Sauce is hot off the job. I’m gonna melt away long before the cops get here.” Affectionately, Alfredo tugged the collar of Trevor’s uniform. “Besides, don’t tell anyone, but I’ve got a guy on the inside. He’ll cover my escape.”

“Job, huh? I had a feeling that shot was you.” Trevor sighed. “Well, you’ve killed the local cryptid.”

“I killed purple bigfoot?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Gotta say, pretty short for a bigfoot.”

Both men froze at the distant sound of sirens. Alfredo threw Trevor a smile and a salute.

“That’s my cue. See you round, copper!”

Despite his racing heart, Trevor managed a smile. “See you round, killer.” 

The two men slipped away from one another, vanishing into the dark building in different directions. As Trevor stalked away through the empty building, he pulled out his radio com and pressed it close to his lips. 

“This is officer Collins, there’s been a murder behind Credit and Commerce. No sign of the perp.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Graphic gun violence, brief homophobic language, kidnapping. Brief anxiety mention, brief mistreatment of animals mention. Although this chapter does not contain intentional gaslighting, it does involve a character going through similar emotional distress briefly.

The day started so normally.

Trevor sulked in his squad car on the side of the road and watched traffic hum past. It was a bright clear morning, sunlight streaming through the palm trees to dapple the pavement, and he still hadn’t found a decent place to get coffee in Los Santos. The hot contents of his paper cup left much to be desired, but after his late shift last night, he needed the caffeine.

Trevor hadn’t been officially sanctioned for ignoring Stevens and following the Vagabond, but he’d gotten a very patronizing speech from his superior. The speech had ended abruptly when Trevor mentioned that the Fakes had bugged the back of the bank in a manner consistent with someone planning to rob the place. In place of any real punishment, Trevor had been put on traffic duty. In Los Santos — where traffic infractions were so ingrained in the regional culture that they may as well be legal, and you might get shot for taking a stop sign too literally — being put on traffic duty basically meant he’d been put in time-out and told to think about what he’d done.

Right now, at the Credit and Commerce Bank of San Andreas, dozens of incognito cop cars were acting normal in the parking lot. Trevor was not among them.

A juiced-up Honda screamed past Trevor’s squad car. Trevor frowned at his speed detector. Fifty in a thirty-five zone. With a disappointed huff, he turned his eyes back to the traffic. He’d been informed that it wasn’t worth turning on his sirens until he saw someone threatening the sound barrier, unless he didn’t like the look of the driver. That chafed on him. Accessory to a wanted criminal or not, Trevor liked rules. He liked making them, liked enforcing them, liked following them, and sometimes, when _he_ decided it was right, he loved breaking them. 

Misdemeanors zipped past Trevor as he sullenly sipped his coffee. Whatever he was going to do today, he was going to do it in a uniform manner, no matter what the neighborhood or drivers looked like. Here he was, doing nothing, very uniformly.

The day stopped being normal with the crackle of his radio, though he didn’t know it yet.

_“All units, we have an armed robbery at the Credit and Commerce Bank of San Andreas!”_

It was expected, but Trevor still set down his coffee with a little too much excitement, sending a hot splash over the cupholder. He turned up the radio volume, traffic forgotten. He’d been told to keep his head down, but no one said he couldn’t listen in.

_“The Fakes are here!”_

_“Holy shit, Wheels is in the sky! We need air support!”_

_"No one said there would be a goddamn attack helicopter!"_

Trevor flinched at the sounds and screams he could hear over the com. Gingerly, he picked up his coffee. For the first time, he felt grateful he was on traffic duty.

 _“I— I did it!”_ Steven’s voice was squeaky over the com. _“The Vagabond is down, I repeat, the Vagabond is down!”_

_“Push forward to the doors, we’ll—“_

_“Made that cocksucker eat lead! Don’t fuck with the LSPD, asshole!”_

_“Stevens, put your fucking dick away and do your job!”_

_“Can anyone tell if there’s hostages?”_

_“Negative, Rimmy Tim is holding down the front door, we can’t get past him!”_

Trevor almost choked on his coffee. He fumbled to turn his com on, lifting it to his mouth and trying not to cough into it. “This is Collins, repeat that?”

_“Rimmy fucking Tim is playing three hundred Spartans with the door of the bank! We’ve already got five men down!”_

“That can’t be Rimmy Tim, he’s dead!”

_“Will someone get the fucking rookie off the coms if he’s gonna say stupid shit? Fuck!”_

_“Let the big boys handle the Fakes, Collins, you just keep an eye on those traffic lights! Maybe you can handle that!”_

_“I killed the Vagabond!”_

_“No you fucking didn’t, Stevens, he’ll be back next week!”_

Trevor stared numbly at his com. “…Copy that,” he grunted. He turned it off.

Frantic shouts continued over the radio. Trevor flopped back in his seat, staring at the road but not really seeing it. This was… not _normal._ Dead people stayed dead. Why was the entire police force acting like that wasn't true? Doubt crept over Trevor's mind like mold as he tried to remember the sight of a man in a purple jacket, face-down in a pool of blood behind a bank. Had he not been as dead as he looked?

Alfredo _never_ missed his mark.

Trevor stared into the hot depths of his disappointing coffee. He rolled down the window and dumped the contents onto the pavement outside.

“Whoops. Now I need more coffee.” Trevor put the empty cup in his cupholder — littering was illegal — and put the squad car in drive. “And since all the coffee in this city sucks, I guess I’m driving home to make more.”

All fair play. No one wanted an under-caffeinated cop. On an unrelated note, home was where Trevor kept his burner phone, the kind that wouldn’t be wise to bring on the job with him. The kind that, if he were a certain type of man, he might use to call an infamous assassin and let that assassin know that his most recent kill was currently alive and robbing a bank.

——

Los Santos was growing on Alfredo.

He lounged in his hotel room with the bright summer sun pouring through the windows, sipping a cold soda as he cleaned his favorite sniper rifle. He’d found a good room. The recliner was damn comfy: a great place for the aforementioned guns-and-soda combination when he had a lazy afternoon. If he walked to the window and peered between two high-rises, he could see the ocean from here. If he looked straight down, he could see food stands and drug deals and million dollar cars and everything in between.

Hives of crime and corruption were hardly rare in the world, but Los Santos was so _unapologetic_ about it. The city was one big middle finger. Alfredo loved that.

His phone buzzed on the table, making him pause in his cleaning. The number was unlisted, but Alfredo had memorized those digits. He smiled as he lifted the phone to his ear.

“You have reached the national hit man sex line,” he purred, leaning back in the recliner. “Press one to place a hit on that sweet sweet—“

_“Alfredo?”_

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite customer.”

_“Y-you’re gonna want to turn on the news.”_

Alfredo frowned. He picked up the remote and turned on the tv. The words on the screen made him straighten up in his recliner.

“Oh shit, they just dug up a dinosaur fossil with intact feathers! Damn, look at that little guy!” 

_“Local news, Alfredo.”_

Alfredo sighed and started changing channels. “This had better be good, that dinosaur was cute.” 

_“I wouldn’t call it good. The Fakes are hitting a bank.”_

“The Fakes minus one, you mean.”

_“No. Not minus one.”_

The screen flashed to local news, showing a scrolling headline below wobbly footage. Alfredo lowered the remote slowly. The parking lot of the bank was swarming with cop cars, all guns pointed to the front door while a frantic news team rambled from a safe-ish distance. In the narrow doorway, a man would occasionally flash by, guns blazing.

Purple jacket over an orange shirt, white cowboy hat, hockey mask with a green star — _exactly_ like the man who had sprayed blood across the pavement behind the bank. 

_“The Fakes must have some sort of copycat situation going on.”_ Trevor was rambling. He only rambled when he was stressed. _“I’m thinking each ‘Fake’ is just a costume and a persona, worn by whoever’s ballsy enough to be the next Rimmy Tim. It’s either that or — or that asshole survived a shot to the head.”_

Alfredo leaned back in the recliner. He loaded a bullet into his rifle without taking his eyes off the screen. “He’s slippery, I’ll give him that.”

_“How can you be so calm about this?”_

“Calm keeps my aim steady.” Alfredo cocked the rifle with an aggressive _click._ “Not gonna lie, it was pretty rude of him to stay alive, but I’m sure we can move past it.”

_“…Oh my god, you’re not calm. You’re seething.”_

Alfredo aimed down the sights of the rifle. On the other side of his crosshairs was outdated wallpaper, but that’s not what he was seeing. He was seeing purple.

“Nah, I’m not mad.” He caressed the trigger, but didn’t squeeze it. “I’m sure this was all a big misunderstanding. Me and Bigfoot are gonna sit down, talk it out.” 

_“What are you planning?”_

Alfredo lowered his gun with a wistful sigh. He loved that rifle, loved the weight and the control, but he needed something else for this job. He needed to see this man up close.

“I’m gonna buy the one type of gun I’ve never owned before.”

——

Alfredo was a hit man. Hit men killed people. What was a hit man to do with a target that came back from the dead?

The shadowy area under the dock smelled like pot and sun-dried seaweed. It was an odd place for an existential crisis, though a perfectly fine place for an arms deal. Alfredo weighed a knockout dart in his hand. It was confusing to be handling bullet-shaped objects that wouldn’t deliver death.

The arms dealer leaned against the open weapons crate and squinted at him. She was five feet tall, built like a freight train, and chewing the pinkest gum Alfredo had ever seen. She blew impatient bubbles as he picked up the rifle.

Alfredo’s stock and trade was all about pulling a trigger and ending someone’s life. He hefted the rifle uncertainly. The weight was all wrong. It felt odd to be pulling a trigger for the purpose of keeping someone alive.

“You gonna buy the gun or marry it?” The arms dealer seemed to have run out of patience, or possibly gum. “With the way you’re fondling it, you’d better do one soon.”

Alfredo nodded at the rifle, as though it was the one who had spoken. “I’ll take her out on a few dates and we’ll see how things go. How much?”

——

Hunting the most unpredictable criminals in the city was no small feat. Taking one alive could have been a Herculean task. 

Alfredo didn’t earn his reputation by being impatient.

He waited. He watched. Sightings of the Fakes peppered the news and social media, but the perfect shot didn’t present itself. The knockout darts were always loaded in the rifle, always strapped to Alfredo’s back. He waited. Trevor snuck him police reports. 

It took a week for the perfect shot to present itself.

\----

The night would have been quiet if not for the gunfire. Salty waves lapped at the sides of a towering cargo ship as the deck above crackled with bullets and curses. The ship was starkly lit with harsh white lights, but the water below was cloaked in night. Alfredo watched from a small watercraft on the dark sea, staring up at the mountainous cargo ship through the sights of his rifle. His crosshairs rocked gently in time with the waves.

Drifting in the sea foam beside the cargo ship, an eye-catching orange and purple jet ski had been moored, vibrant even in the gloom. It waited patiently for the return of its rider, and so did Alfredo.

One by one, the flashing muzzles aboard the cargo ship went silent. Moments later, a figure appeared beside the railing, his familiar white cowboy hat blindingly bright in the stark floodlights. Alfredo’s crosshairs rested over that glowing purple jacket. If he shot now, Rimmy Tim would collapse on the deck.

“I’m clear.” Rimmy Tim’s voice was faintly audible. Whatever voice chattered in his com, however, was lost to the ocean wind. He swung his leg over the guard rail, balancing on the edge. “I’ll see you all back at—“

Alfredo pulled the trigger, and a man didn’t die.

**——**

The coast off Los Santos was scattered with small, rocky islands. Alfredo found one that the arms dealers hadn’t encrusted with outposts yet. The cliffs were steep stone, bristling with barnacles up to the tide-line, salt-stained and sun-baked above that. There were patches of land where rocky sand met the ocean. Here, the harsh cliffs and blanket of darkness sheltered the small grey beach from prying eyes. 

Alfredo leaned against a boulder and soaked in a sight that few had beheld before: a Fake, unconscious, tied to a chair. Alfredo had brought the chair with him. It seemed proper. He was pretty new to the entire idea of taking someone alive, but he was pretty sure it should involve dramatically tying someone to a chair.

The full moon clearly illuminated his unconscious captive. Stocky build, bright clothes, about five foot four… everything about the man tied to Alfredo’s chair matched the client’s description of Rimmy Tim. But then again, Alfredo had thought the same thing last time. 

A now-familiar pale hockey mask obscured the man’s face. The hot green star looked like a warning, the type of flashy color only a venomous animal would boast. Cautiously, Alfredo reached for the mask. His fingertips touched the hard plastic, but there was no motion in the unconscious man. Carefully, Alfredo slipped the mask down. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but the face beneath was normal. Young, nicely-kept beard, features all softened with unconsciousness. The face twitched slightly, letting out a soft breath.

The drugs should be wearing off soon. Alfredo sharply flicked the man’s cheek, jolting him awake with a bark.

“Shit _ass_ —!“

With his breath rapid in alarm, Rimmy Tim blinked up at Alfredo. His gaze flicked to the bandana covering Alfredo’s face, then down to the plethora of guns on his belt, and back up again. His breath settled. He leaned back in the chair, as comfortable as though he wasn’t tied to it, and smiled.

“Well, I don’t see this every day,” he began conversationally. He twisted meaningfully at his ropes. “Don’t feel this every day either. Nice bandana. What can I do for you, buddy?”

“I just have one question.” Alfredo crossed his arms. “Why aren’t you dead?”

“Well, I try not to make a habit of it.” Rimmy Tim tsked in disappointment. “Fuck, why don’t I wear a bandana like that? I’ve already got half a cowboy look going.”

Alfredo flicked the hat off Rimmy Tim’s head and pressed a finger hard between his eyes, pushing his head back. The man winced. 

“One week ago,” Alfredo continued sharply, “I put a bullet _right here_ into a man who looked just like you. So tell me: why aren’t you dead?”

“O-oh, that was _you_ behind the bank!” The outlaw laughed. “That was a damn good shot! But if you thought that was gonna finish me off, you must not know who I am.”

Alfredo huffed as he pulled back. “I don’t shoot people if I don’t know who they are. I just wanna know why you’re not dead.”

Rimmy Tim rolled his head to the side, his crooked smile growing. “Anyone in Los Santos could tell you,” he drawled. “You can’t kill a Fake.”

Alfredo heaved a long, weary sigh. “Look, man, I was just curious. If you’re gonna be weird about it—“

“You got your answer, sweetheart.”

Alfredo slipped a gun out of his belt and pressed the barrel against Rimmy Tim’s forehead, right where his finger had been. The man’s smile shattered.

“Wh-whoa, easy—“

“I’ve got a remedy for men who shouldn’t be alive.” 

The blast from the gun knocked the chair over.

Alfredo cocked his head at the sight. After a moment, he squeezed the trigger again, and again, and again, until it was empty. By the time he lowered the smoking barrel, the grey sand was a bloody marsh with the mangled remains of a man in the center.

“If you come back again,” Alfredo grunted, holstering his gun, “you and I are gonna have words, dead man.” 

_——_

Trevor's alarm buzzed.

He rolled over in bed with a groan, fumbling around on his bedside table. At last, his hand found his phone and the alarm silenced.

Trevor yawned as he rolled over, running fingers through his hair. He'd slept through the night. He must be getting used to his new bed, new apartment, new city. Rain poured down his bedroom window, rumbling softly. So that's why it seemed too dark to be dawn. With a groan, Trevor picked up his phone and flopped back onto the mattress. Time to check the news before getting up. It was never too early in the morning for anxiety.

It took less time than usual to find something that made his throat close up. Trevor bolted upright, the warm haze of sleep forgotten. A video was flashing on his screen. 

The cell phone footage was rocky. It was hard to tell if the person holding the camera had agreed to this or not. Rimmy Tim stood on the tiled roof of a bank in full brazen glory, all bright colors with a cowboy hat shadowing his mask, pistol pointed at the clear blue sky. There was a new color added to his regalia of orange and purple: a blood-red bandana, tied over his mask as though to hide his face a second time.

That was _not_ a normal part of Rimmy Tim’s uniform.

“…No way.” The phone quivered in Trevor’s hand. “Th-that’s not right, that’s not—“

None of the Fakes had seen Alfredo’s bandana until two days ago, when Alfredo abducted and shot Rimmy Tim on a dark rocky island. A cold and unknown horror was creeping through Trevor’s chest. It wasn’t a copycat situation. That was the same Rimmy Tim.

He almost jumped as the phone started ringing in his hand. His finger stumbled over the screen a few times before he picked up, putting it on speaker.

 _“Hey, Trevor, amigo!”_ Alfredo sounded dangerously cheerful. _“You been on Twitter this morning?”_

“Yeah, I…” The video repeated on Trevor’s screen, Rimmy Tim laughing with that blood-red bandana tied over his mask. “I saw it.”

_“I’m starting to get ticked off, Trev.”_

Trevor took a breath as he hauled himself out of bed. “Alfredo—“

_“I thought, you know, maybe the problem is my bullets. Maybe bullets don’t kill people anymore and I missed the memo. So I took a quick contract on a dogfighter and you know what, Trev?”_

“Listen—“

_“Bullets still kill people, Trevor! I tested ‘em out, they work just fine, I didn’t see that son of a bitch walking around later! And good riddance, what kind of asshole makes puppies fight?”_

“I don’t think the Fakes can die,” Trevor blurted.

Alfredo’s grunt was far from convinced. _“Everyone dies. That’s how I stay employed. Whatever sort of Rasputin shit they’re pulling, it doesn’t mean that—”_

“I’ve been hearing things.” Trevor ran his hand through his hair again. “Everyone in LSPD talks about the Fakes like they’re some sort of local monsters. People swear they’ve seen the Fakes die, even caught it on video, but they always come back. Alfredo, I… I don’t know how, and I wouldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t killed one of them yourself, but I don’t think they stay dead.”

 _“So they’ve got a reputation.”_ Alfredo’s shrug was almost audible over the phone. _“I’ve got a sniper rifle. We’ll see if I run out of bullets before they stop coming back.”_

Trevor pressed a hand over his eyes. He whispered his next words, ashamed to hear them leaving his lips. 

“Drop the job, Alfredo. Please.”

The silence was more painful than anything Alfredo could have said. Rain drummed against Trevor's bedroom window.

“Fraidy.” Trevor’s words quivered in the rainy silence. “Have I _ever_ told you to drop a job before?”

_“No. And I thought we agreed you never would.”_

“I-it’s just one job, please.”

 _“It’s not one job, it’s six! The six highest-paying jobs in the city! And it doesn't matter because I already took the contract, I’ll lose cred if I drop it now!”_ Alfredo made a frustrated noise. _“Trevor, you can’t ask me to do this.”_

“I’m just—“ Words were tumbling out of Trevor. “I’m scared, okay? In all the cities we’ve hit, I’ve never heard cops talk this way. The Fakes don’t even sound _real,_ I don’t want them to -- ” He bit his tongue. “...I-I know you can handle yourself, but… but what if you can’t handle them?”

_“I don’t handle myself, Trevor. Not all on my own. I’ve got a partner who keeps me out of trouble.”_

Over the sound of pouring rain, a car horn wailed in the distance. Trevor stared out the window so that he wouldn’t have to look at his phone.

 _“I have to do this.”_ Alfredo’s voice was soft as though in apology. _“I’ll be in even more trouble if I go back on my contracts. I need my partner with me.”_

Trevor let out a long breath and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “O-okay. Okay, you’re right. I-I shouldn’t have asked that, I’m sorry. I’m with you.”

_“We’re gonna figure this out, yeah? You and me. Haven’t we had scary targets before?”_

“We have.”

_“These guys are extra freaky, but we’ll get the job done. We’ll get some bigger guns, try some different tactics. They’re not gonna beat us. Maybe they’re vampires or some shit, whatever, I’ll rub my bullets down with garlic. We're takin' these scumbags to Olive Garden.”_

Rain poured down the window in rivers. Trevor watched the streams numbly.

“Alfredo?”

_“Yeah?”_

“What are you gonna do if they really can’t die?”

There was silence over the phone. After a moment, Alfredo sighed.

 _“If they really can’t die, I… I’ll have to drop the job,”_ he admitted. _“Fuck. I’ve never tried to get out of a contract before.”_

Trevor squeezed the phone. “W-we’ll deal with it. If that happens, we’ll… we’ll deal with it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blackmail, threats of death and torture, invasion of personal space, interpersonal power struggle / manipulation, graphic gun violence, knife violence, panic / dissociative symptoms, stalking, fearing for the safety of a loved one.

There was an estate perched on the arid hills of the San Andreas countryside, not far away from screeching traffic of Los Santos.

There were a lot of estates, actually. The ultra-rich had a thing for rugged, picturesque landscapes overlooking the sea. Wrought iron fences with security cameras — and in some cases, automated turrets — sectioned off vast portions of the countryside, reserved for the kind of people who could buy a boat with the change they found between their couch cushions. 

But there was one  _ particular  _ estate of interest to Trevor, and to the Los Santos Police Department.

Trevor stood outside the wrought iron gate in civilian clothes. His civilian car was parked, engine running, facing the gate. If this was going to work, he couldn’t be here as a cop. Beyond the gate, at the end of a lengthy brick driveway and past something that sure looked like a vineyard, he could see the mansion itself. The building was at least fifty percent balcony, beautifully landscaped and shimmering with pools. It wasn’t the biggest estate in San Andreas, nor the most expensive, but it was the only one that half the city suspected to be owned by the Fake AH Crew.

The police station was often abuzz with frustrated curses about the estate with the vineyard. Try as they might, the LSPD could never get a warrant to search the premises. The paperwork for the property all checked out and the closest neighbors never saw anything stranger than the occasional legal firework go off: nothing was officially suspicious about the place. The estate on the hill remained a _rumored_ hideout of the Fake AH Crew, and legally, no more than private property. People murmured about it in bars, teenagers dared each other to approach the fence, but the law’s hands were tied.

Trevor cast a nervous gaze upwards at the gate. The fence was a ferocious thing, black and intricate and topped with bronze spears, as ornate as it was imposing. An occasional  _ tick  _ whispered of an electrical current running through the bars. The front gate was wide enough to let a car through, and latched together with the sort of machinery that no locksmith should bother with. There was no mechanism for opening the gate, save for a buzzer and a speaker. Invitation only.

If Trevor had done his research right — and he’d barely slept for a week, researching this damn estate — he was about to get his invitation.

He rang the buzzer.

For a while, nothing happened. Trevor tapped his foot against the ornate brickwork, hands behind his back, staring up at the clear blue sky. The Fakes might not be home. They might not be interested in entertaining an unexplained guest. Worst of all, this may not even be the residence of the Fakes. 

The sound of the speaker made him jump.

_ “You look a little old to be selling girl scout cookies,”  _ crackled a voice. 

Trevor’s heart thumped as he stared at the speaker, as though he could see the person beyond it. It was a frightfully normal voice, a little soft and a little stern and a lot confused, with no ominous accent to speak of. There was no cruel sneer of a sadist, no low rumble of a brute. It sounded like someone who wanted another cup of coffee.

“H-hi.” Trevor collected his voice and tried to face the very real possibility that the people who lived here were just normal, mortal, law-abiding rich people. “Um, I’m not with the IRS, first of all.” 

_ “Um… okay. Hi, Not With The IRS, I’m dad.” _

“But,” Trevor continued before he could lose his nerve, “you’ve got a tax violation that you should probably fix.”

Silence for a moment. The voice seemed to have brushed off its sense of humor like dust from its hands.

_ “All right, Not With The IRS, who are you, exactly?” _

“Someone who could help.” Trevor tapped his expensive shoe nervously against the bricks. “If you could just… answer a few questions for me, that is.”

The implication hung in the air. Trevor’s heart pounded. 

“I’ve documented the error,” Trevor blurted. “I haven’t told anyone yet. But I’ve scheduled an email to send in my absence, in case you were thinking that I maybe shouldn’t leave your doorstep. Not that you were thinking that.” 

_ “On the contrary, Not With The IRS, I’m thinking you ought to come a good deal closer.” _

The gate creaked and began to slide open. Trevor scrambled to get back in his car, his heart racing. Either he was about to seriously bother some random person, or he was about to be face to face with a Fake.

As the gate opened, Trevor drove inside; the first officer of the law to set foot in the alleged hideout of the Fake AH Crew.

In his rearview mirror, Trevor could see the big mechanical gate closing behind him like a castle’s portcullis. No turning back now. He wondered if the jaws of the gate had any intention of opening for him again. It was a long drive from the gate to the mansion, and new doubts crept into his mind with every brick that passed under his wheels.

Trevor parked his car in front of the mansion and stepped out with his heart pounding. The front door was more modest than he expected. No marble pillars flanked it, no brass lion’s-head knocker snarled above the knob. There was merely a porch with a few chairs and some nicely manicured landscaping. Trevor’s legs wobbled as he ascended the steps and knocked on the door.

It creaked open.

The man that greeted him didn’t  _ look  _ like an immortal criminal. He looked like a guy who would rather be fishing right now. His facial hair was well-kept and his arms were a network of tattoos. As Trevor blinked, the tattooed man crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, looking him over with an unreadable expression. 

“You know… we’ve got a pretty good accountant.” The man’s voice didn’t sound any more menacing up close. “I don’t think we’ve got anything wrong with our taxes.”

“M-maybe,” Trevor admitted. “Maybe your records are squeaky clean and I’m lying out my ass. You could find out if you shut the door right now. Or if you shot me in the head and tossed my remains in your piranha tank.”

“We don’t have one of those,” the man interrupted.

“ _ But  _ do you know what I think?” Trevor took a breath. “Everyone hates paperwork. Even people who aren’t afraid of death probably still hate paperwork. Do you really wanna take the chance that I know something that could be a real pain in the ass for you?” 

The man laughed. “Ha! I know the tattoos make me look tough, but I’m flattered you think I’m not afraid of death.”

Each breath quivered on Trevor’s tongue, afraid it would be the last. “Of course you’re not afraid of death.” His voice was a cautious whisper. “None of the Fake AH Crew is.”

The man stopped laughing, but he didn’t stop smiling. “You’ve got balls, cookie boy.” 

“Thanks, I… I don’t get told that often, actually.” 

There were footsteps inside the house, and a moment later, another man stepped into view in the doorway. He was slightly taller, a lot broader, and he looked at Trevor skeptically.

“Who’ve we got here?” he grunted.

His voice was familiar.

The tattooed man chuckled. “He’s not with the IRS.”

_ Leather and gunpowder. _ The smell lingered in the air. A chill seeped through Trevor’s stomach, his gaze trapped on the new man.  _ Living nightmares. Not human. Do not engage. _

Something in his gut screamed that the tall man standing before him was the Vagabond.

“Let me introduce myself.” The tattooed man didn’t change his voice, but suddenly it had the weight of an iron anchor. He held out his hand. “I’m the Kingpin. And you are very, very dead if you tell anyone that, paperwork or not.” 

Trevor’s hand trembled as he shook the Kingpin’s hand. “Ch-charmed.”

The Kingpin hadn’t let go of Trevor’s hand. “Step inside.” 

It wasn’t a suggestion. With a face far more disciplined than his knees, Trevor stepped into the hideout of the Fake AH Crew.

The interior was, if anything, less formal than the outside. The front door opened onto a living room with a mini-bar and a scattering of comfy, squishy couches. Every material, from the leather upholstery to the hardwood floors, was expensive, but not pristine. The room felt lived-in.

Trevor wished the homeyness was a comfort. A chill crept up his spine as the Kingpin shut the door.

The Vagabond looked Trevor up and down like he was an interesting piece of loot. When he spoke, he spoke to the Kingpin. “So, what’s he want?” 

“We’re being menaced with paperwork,” the Kingpin chuckled.

The Vagabond cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a serious threat. We hate paperwork.”

“I know. This one’s clever. I think we’d better answer his questions.”

The tall man’s cold gaze slid back to Trevor. “Questions, hm? I’ve got a question for  _ you,  _ cop.” His leather jacket slipped to the side as he placed a hand on his hip, revealing a frightfully large hunting knife hanging from his belt. “What’s stopping me from carving some cooperation into you right now?”

It took effort for Trevor to tear his eyes away from that menacing blade. His breath was quickening, snagging on his words. “I-I’m hoping you’re a smart man,” he admitted. “I just have a few questions. I don’t want trouble with you.” 

The man with the knife smirked. He prowled closer, and it took all of Trevor’s self control not to move as a rough hand grabbed his face, as though to inspect it. His heart quivered with each rapid beat.

“Have you met the Vagabond?” The Kingpin asked mildly.

It was hard to speak with the man grabbing his face. “I’ve h-heard of you,” Trevor grunted. “How did you know I was a cop?”

“You’ve got a  _ look.”  _ The Vagabond let out a thoughtful hum as he tilted Trevor’s face. “It’s a look I’m used to shooting.” 

“Vagabond.” The Kingpin flicked his hand. “Down, boy.” 

The Vagabond gave Trevor’s cheek a soft pat, as though in reassurance, and slunk away.

“You said you had questions for us.” The Kingpin continued talking as the Vagabond fell into line beside him like a loyal dog. “Let’s hear them.”

Trevor took a deep breath. He rubbed his jaw where the Vagabond’s fingers had dug in. “Just one question, really. How is Rimmy Tim still alive?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. If there had been a whisper of the smile on the Kingpin’s face, it vanished.

“I’d like a real answer, please,” Trevor continued. “I don’t want to hear about how that wasn’t the real Rimmy Tim. I just want to know how he took a bullet to the head and walked it off, twice.”

The Vagabond’s voice was quiet, but it held more menace than an assault rifle. “Were you the one who shot him?”

Trevor met the man’s gaze with all the courage he could muster. “S-so it  _ was  _ him. Thank you for confirming that.” He swallowed. “I just need that one question answered. Tell me how he’s alive, and I won’t bother you anymore.”

For a moment, neither man spoke, both of them stone-faced. The silence ticked by and Trevor’s heart thumped along with the seconds. __ Finally, the Vagabond grunted one blunt question. 

“You want me to kill him, boss?”

The blood drained from Trevor’s face. “I-I came here unarmed,” he stammered.

With an eerie calmness, the Vagabond’s hand drifted towards the knife on his belt. “That wouldn’t have made a difference.”

The Kingpin held up a hand. “Easy, Vagabond. This gentleman asked us a question, I think we ought to give him an answer. You want to know why Rimmy Tim isn’t dead? It’s simple, really.”

The Vagabond shot him a sharp look. “Boss—“

“That wasn’t the real Rimmy Tim.”

The words hung in the air. Trevor’s gaze flicked to the Vagabond, then back to the Kingpin. 

“Just a decoy.” The Kingpin shrugged. “Cheap trick, but people buy it.”

“I told you I don’t believe that,” Trevor reminded him.

The Kingpin narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like you know an awful lot about how he died.”

“Yeah, I’m a cop, as you so astutely observed. It’s literally my job to know.”

“Did you kill him, cop?”

“No.”

“Well, there you have it. Someone fucked up, shot the wrong man.”

“He did  _ not  _ shoot the wrong man.”

“Well, my mistake. I didn’t mean to insult your friend.”

Some sort of trap was closing around him. Trevor bit his tongue. “You're barking up the wrong tree. Like I said, it’s just my job to know who kills who in this city.” 

The Kingpin stroked his chin. “Yeah, I guess that checks out. Cops usually sound personally offended when you imply that a criminal was bad at their crime.”

“N-now hold on a second--” 

“You walked into a room with the Fakes, cop.” The Kingpin’s voice hardened like a jail cell slamming shut. “Unarmed. Nothing to defend yourself with except a little blackmail and the general assumption that we could be…  _ reasoned with _ .” 

Not even the Vagabond’s hand on his jaw had made Trevor feel this cornered. The silence stretched uncomfortably, but he didn’t have permission to break it.

“You know what I think, cop?” The Kingpin tapped his fingers against his tattooed bicep. “I think this isn’t your first time being friendly with a criminal. Now, remind me... how much do you know about the man who shot Rimmy Tim?” 

“O-okay, okay—“ Trevor held his hands up. “Cards on the table: I’m actually trying to help you, believe it or not. I’m trying to make the hit man back off. If he knows you can’t die, he’s gotta drop the job.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I swear.”

The Vagabond raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think we want him to back off?”

The words bounced off Trevor’s brain. He blinked at the Vagabond. “Ex… excuse me?”

“It’s not like he can kill us,” the Kingpin mused. 

The Vagabond’s low voice dripped with an unsettling relish. “Let him keep trying. Sooner or later, he’ll… slip up.” His thumb flicked over the blade on his belt. “I would  _ love  _ some alone time with this man who thinks he can kill us.”

Trevor’s jaw tensed. Knife forgotten, he took three strides towards the Vagabond until they were almost sharing breath.

“I saw the way you looked at me when you thought I’d killed Rimmy Tim.” The heat in his voice made the Vagabond pull back. “I don’t think you like watching him die. How many times are you willing to let him take a bullet before you catch the man behind the trigger? You’ve already proven you can’t protect him.”

Silence stretched between them like a garrote. The Vagabond met his gaze coldly. Trevor didn’t realize the man had moved until he felt a knife tap gently against his chest.

“Step back,” the Vagabond ordered quietly.

Trevor obeyed. The knife didn’t follow him. He took a long breath, turning his gaze to the Kingpin. 

“I am  _ begging  _ you,” he admitted. “You don’t want your crew hurt, I don’t want my crew hurt. We have a common goal. Give me something,  _ anything _ to make the hit man back off.”

The Kingpin was giving Trevor a strange look, as though seeing him for the first time. “The tax thing was a bluff, wasn’t it?”

Trevor blinked. “Oh no, that’s very real. You will, and I cannot stress this enough, have to spend way too much time on the phone with the IRS if you don’t give me what I want.”

“Ha! Well…” The Kingpin spread his tattooed arms. “You’ve got us cornered, then! I’d better send you on your way with something worthwhile!”

The Vagabond rolled his eyes.

“Listen, officer…” The Kingpin sighed. “Is there a name I can call you? Doesn’t have to be your real one.”

Trevor chewed his lip. After a moment, he replied, “Trevor.”

“Trevor, I know what you’re asking for, and I can’t give it to you. I can’t tell you how or why Rimmy Tim is still alive. I’m sorry, but that’s a secret I can’t share.” He slipped a hand behind his back. “But I won’t make you leave empty-handed.” 

His hand withdrew with a pistol.

Trevor took a shaky step back. “W-wait—“

The Kingpin pointed his gun at the Vagabond. The Vagabond didn’t flinch even when the barrel nudged his skull. A chill seeped through Trevor’s chest.

“H-hold on…” His voice was choked. “W-what are you doing?”

“Vagabond?” The Kingpin’s voice was almost playful. “Are you afraid to die?”

The Vagabond took a long breath, closing his eyes. “No.”

“See you soon.”

“See you soon, boss.”

Trevor didn’t have time to speak before the Kingpin pulled the trigger.

The blast rang in Trevor’s ears, but the more sickening noise was the  _ thump _ . The Kingpin hummed to himself as he slipped the safety on the gun and slipped it back in his pants.

“Sh-shit—“ Trevor stumbled back, pressing a shaking hand over his mouth. “Oh g-god—“

Blood poured across the expensive hardwood. The bullet wound was a black hole in the Vagabond’s head, the skin charred from the blast of the gun.

The Kingpin stepped over the dead body as though it wasn’t even there. “You can’t kill a Fake, Trevor.” He pushed open the door, letting sunlight fall across the bloody scene. “Go tell your hit man.”

Trevor could feel his heart pounding behind his eyes. He couldn't look away from the body. The Vagabond’s eyes were open, staring sightlessly across the floor. That man had been talking to him  _ seconds  _ ago.

“I don’t like to kick out a guest,” the Kingpin murmured, making Trevor jump, “but the table is only set for six.”

Trevor finally pulled his eyes away from the bloody scene, his breath strangled. “S-sorry, sorry, I’ll just—“ He forced his legs to move, to carry him away from the body and towards the sunlight. "I-I'll be on my way--"

He could see his car parked outside. There was no air left in the house, but if he could just get to his car he could breathe again.

“Oh, Trevor…”

A hand closed on his shoulder. Trevor froze as though he’d felt a gun press against his head.  _ Just like the Vagabond felt in his last moments. _

The Kingpin’s voice was a whisper behind him. “Whatever tax infraction you found, I’d be  _ very  _ grateful if you’d keep it a secret for now. Maybe later we can talk, and I can remedy the issue without involving the IRS.”

Trevor swallowed. “Y-yes, yes sir, we can do that.”

“You’re a reasonable sort, Trevor. I’ll tell my crew not to bother your hit man, even if he comes after us again. They won’t hurt him.”

“I… th-thank you.”

The Kingpin chuckled and gave his shoulder a light slap. "Don't keep your hit man waiting."

Leaving was a blur. Trevor must have gotten in his car at some point, must have started the engine, must have been allowed to leave through that ominous gate. He barely saw where he was going. Trevor drove and drove and drove until the Fakes were far behind.

He found himself catching his breath in a parking lot outside a public beach.

Wind gusted over the dunes, but Trevor didn't dare open his windows, even though the car was muggy with stale breath and stress. The parking lot was swarming with beachgoers, garbed in swimsuits and towels and sunscreen, loading or unloading their beach gear. It was a sea of potential witnesses, hopefully enough to keep him safe. Trevor’s hand was sweaty as he pulled out his burner phone and dialed Alfredo.

_ “How did it go?”  _ Alfredo’s familiar voice was instantly calming. _ “You okay?” _

Trevor took a long, shuddering breath. “Y-yeah. Yeah. I got in and out just fine. They didn’t hurt me.”

_ “They bought that whole sob story about how you just wanna protect your reckless boyfriend from them? Your dashing, handsome, reckless--” _

“Oh they bought it. Griping about you comes naturally to me.”

_ “Ouch, babe, that stings.” _

Trevor’s breath was starting to steady. “Yeah. Yeah they bought it.”

He hadn’t been sure if they would. Hadn’t been sure the Fakes would believe that he was coming to them on his knees, begging and making weak threats. People loved to underestimate their enemies. Trevor never made that mistake.

Well, not until the day he foolishly assumed that a sniper round to the skull would keep someone dead.

_ “You learn anything useful?” _

Trevor checked again to make sure the car was locked. His heart wouldn’t stop pounding. “I-I think we already knew this, but bullets aren’t an option.”

_ “Shit, did you shoot one of them?” _

“No, one of  _ them _ shot one of them.” He closed his eyes at the memory, shuddering. “In front of me. To make a point.”

_ “Holy shit… Trevor, I’m sorry.” _

“He didn’t even twitch. His own partner held a gun to his head and he didn’t—“ Trevor took a moment to steady his voice. “I-if he’s really dead then he… he just stood there and let it happen.”

_ “I’ve got a feeling he’s not really dead.” _

“W-what the hell do you think they are? I’m not superstitious but— humans can’t  _ do  _ that!”

_ “Looks like we really are hunting bigfoot. We need plans, Trev.” _

“Destroy the bodies.” 

The words were out of him too fast. Trevor blinked at the bright, sand-dusted cars as his brain caught up with his tongue. A bullet to the head was too clean. If they wanted to keep the Fakes dead, they needed to make a mess.

_ "...I'm listening,"  _ Alfredo said slowly.

Trevor squeezed the steering wheel to steady himself. “Every time they’ve come back, it’s been from a shot to the head, right? Let’s leave no remains. Use fire or explosives, something that gives them nothing to come back to.”

_ “Now that’s what I’m talking about: solutions.” _

——

In the hideout of the Fake AH Crew lived a sharpshooting maniac who wielded a gilded pistol and a dangerous taste for arson. To the public, he was known only as Golden Boy.

He was playing Mario Kart.

The Kingpin strode into the room, watching the colorful explosions on the screen as he came to a stop beside the couch. However, the sharpshooting maniac on the couch didn’t call him “Kingpin.”

“Ello, Geoff.” He didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he swerved around a banana peel. “Wanna jump in the game?”

“Ha, maybe later, Gavin.” The Kingpin -- just Geoff right now -- ruffled Gavin’s hair. “Need you to stalk someone for me.”

Gavin paused the game and perked up like a meerkat. “Ooooooh, who am I stalking?”

Geoff flopped into an armchair. “Cop, probably LSPD, first name might be Trevor. I’ll know him when I see a photo.” 

Gavin’s phone was already out and he was typing madly. “If he’s LSPD, this won’t take long. What’s he look like?”

“Tall, dark, handsome. You’ll like him.” Geoff’s gaze flicked up at the sound of footsteps, and he smiled. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Ryan.” 

Ryan yawned as he shuffled into the room, as though he’d just woken up. Gavin leaned his head back on the couch to blink upside-down at him. 

“What happened to you, Ry?”

Ryan shrugged. “Geoff shot me.”

“What’d he do that for?”

“Scaring a cop. It was for a good cause. Hey, Geoff, what was the look on his face like after I dropped?”

Geoff snickered, crossing his legs and leaning back in the armchair. “Gorgeous.”

“See? Worth it.”

Gavin huffed as he turned his attention back to his phone. “I missed all the fun.” 

"Don't worry. I have a feeling we haven't seen the last of him." Geoff tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his chin. "...Or his hit man."

Gavin didn't look up from his phone. "Hit man?"

"Our cop's gone dirty. He's working with the guy who took out Rimmy behind Credit and Commerce."

Ryan sighed, leaning on the back of the couch. "I  _ told  _ him we didn't need to be in uniform." 

“Ryan, can I just say how impressed I am with your restraint?” Geoff leaned his chin in his hand and smiled fondly. “The shit he said to you, and knowing he was involved in Rimmy’s little kidnapping adventure, I thought I might have to hold you back.”

Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Restraint? I wanted to kill him and he knew it.” 

“Exactly. I’m proud.” 

“Oooooh  _ Geoff. _ ” Gavin made a fluttery noise and wiggled on the couch before holding out his phone for Geoff to see. “Oh,  _ please _ tell me this is the one.”

Geoff leaned forward to look at the screen. “Oh yeah, that’s him.”

“Officer  _ Trevor Collins _ .” Gavin curled up around his phone, smiling at it. “Now there’s a lovely face. Did the rest of him look as good, Ryan?”

Ryan shrugged. “He looked stab-able.”

“Ugh. You think everyone looks stab-able.”

Ryan leaned over the couch and grabbed a casual fistful of Gavin’s hair. Gavin almost dropped his phone with a choked gasp.

“Maybe I wouldn’t,” Ryan mused, slowly twisting Gavin’s hair, “if people weren’t made of soft, helpless meat practically  _ designed  _ for sharpened steel to slowly-- _ ”  _

Geoff sighed. “Ryan, quit giving Gavin a boner and let him work.”

With a scoff, Ryan let go. Substantially pinker than before, Gavin scrolled on his phone.

"Looks like Trevor boy has been a cop for years," he announced, "but never in one city for too long.” 

“Troublemaker, huh?”

“Dunno about that, looks like he requests the transfers himself. If it’s a cover-up, it’s smooth.”

Geoff drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. "More likely it's related to his hit man. Following the jobs to new cities."

Gavin was still scrolling through his phone and biting his lip. “Mmmm. Bloody shame to see a face like that on a cop. You think it’s too much to hope he’s got a Golden Boy poster hanging over his bed?”

“I wouldn’t count on it, Gav.”

Ryan crossed his arms on the back of the couch. “Why’d you let the cop go, Geoff? He knows an awful lot and he made it clear he's not a friend.”

Geoff flicked the worry aside. “We’ve got leverage, and if he’s smart he knows it.”

“Leverage?”

“Some good old fashioned mutually assured destruction.” Geoff leaned on the arm of the chair, resting his chin in his hand. “If, hypothetically, someone gave the LSPD an anonymous tip that a certain officer was on friendly terms with a hit man… do you think that officer would have to deal with some  _ paperwork?” _

Ryan grunted, unconvinced. “The  _ best  _ leverage is filling someone’s skull with lead.”

“Look at the  _ potential,  _ Ryan. He’s got guts. He’s clever. He’s in the LSPD but he doesn’t mind working with criminals. Put that together and what can you make?” 

“I don’t follow.”

Geoff leaned back in the armchair with a smile. “Haven’t you always wanted a mole in the police force? I have.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic gun violence, fearing for the safety of a loved one, vague threats of violence. Once again, although there's no deliberate gaslighting in this story, a character undergoes similar emotional distress.

Los Santos was a filthy nest of crime, but no one said it wasn’t scenic. 

Trevor leaned back on a wrought iron chair and stared out at the sea instead of reading the newspaper in his hand. Picnic tables were scattered across the creaky dock between food vendors, bolted down as protection against picnic table thieves. An airborne army of seagulls swarmed overhead, their cries snagged by the wind as they foraged for the fine dining of stale french fries and spilled milkshakes.

Trevor sat at the farthest table at the end of the dock, as close to the water and far from other people as he could get. It struck Trevor as a good place to meet. The sea wind carried words away.

A greasy sheet of brown paper with a few smears of ketchup was pinned under Trevor’s paper coffee cup, fluttering in the wind. The hot dog it once wrapped had been greasy, smoky, salty, and piled high with chili and cheese: street food bliss. The heavy taste still lingered on Trevor’s tongue as he turned his gaze down to the newspaper in his hand. He felt like he wasn’t really part of a new city until he sampled the local high calorie street food. With that hot dog down, he was a proper Los Santos officer. 

Well, aside from being an inside man for a nationally infamous assassin.

A chair scraped across the dock as someone took a seat at Trevor’s table. Trevor smiled at his newspaper without looking up.

“You’re early, Fraidy.”

“Guess again, cop.”

Trevor’s blood chilled as his gaze snapped up from the newspaper. The man that sat across from him was familiar, but wasn’t Alfredo.

“Hey there.” The Vagabond leaned on the table with a smile. “You’ve got a  _ look  _ to you, cop.”

_ Blood poured across the expensive hardwood floor. The bullet wound was a black hole in the Vagabond’s head, the skin charred from the blast of the gun.  _

“O-oh god—“ Trevor’s hands were almost shaking too hard to set down the newspaper. “God. Fuck.”

“Relax,” the Vagabond drawled, “I’m not here to hurt you. Just thought you might be happy to see my smiling face.”

Trevor pressed his fingertips into the bridge of his nose, trying to breathe. “G-god, you’re… you’re alive. And here. Okay. Okay, I can handle this.”

“You sure? You don’t look like it.”

Trevor opened his eyes, but the Vagabond was still there. Living, breathing, sitting at a sun-bleached wooden table, wearing a baseball cap to keep the bright beachy sun off his face. Trevor would have been able to see the bullet hole below the rim of the hat, if there had been one. The skin was unbroken.

“Chill out, cop.” The Vagabond chuckled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Trevor swallowed. “Where’s the Kingpin?”

“Not here.” The Vagabond’s body was relaxed in his chair, but he had the hungry, tireless gaze of something with too many teeth that lurked in a primeval swamp. “Why? Miss him?”

“I miss the way he reminded you not to kill me.”

“Mmm, funny. I don’t think I miss that.”

Trevor had a feeling that his words were disturbing murky waters. “Y-you said you weren’t here to hurt me.”

“Sorry to disappoint, cop. Maybe next time.” 

Trevor almost jumped out of his seat as another chair scraped loudly across the planks. A second man was taking a seat at his table; his shaved-smooth head would barely come up to Trevor's shoulder, but his biceps looked like they could crush bones. He sat without a word.

“H-hi,” Trevor stammered. He was starting to feel outflanked. “Uh, who are you?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” the new man drawled. “Your trigger happy boyfriend keeps killing me.” 

Trevor gripped his coffee harder. The flimsy paper was almost buckling. “O-oh. Y-you’re the purple one.”

“Haha! Yeah, I’m the purple one.”

The Vagabond leaned back in his chair, slinging one arm over the back. “Speaking of your hit man… how’s he doing?”

Trevor’s jaw tensed. “The Kingpin said you’d leave him alone. He promised.”

“Hey, easy.” Rimmy Tim held his hands up. “We’re not gonna bother him. We’re just  _ concerned,  _ see.”

“Those assassination contracts can be a pain,” the Vagabond added.

Rimmy Tim nodded. “Real pain.” 

“Clients get pissed when people can’t deliver on their promises.”

“Sucks, man. How’s he coping with that?”

“It’s really not his fault, he didn’t know the job was impossible.” 

“Quit playing with me,” Trevor snapped. “Get to your point.”

Rimmy Tim bit his lip. He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Oh, I’m not playing with you  _ yet,  _ cop.”

“Listen…” The Vagabond crossed his arms on the table. “We can’t help but feel a little responsible for the predicament you’re in. Maybe we can help you out. Keep some heat off your hit man.” 

The offer made Trevor’s heart skip. He pulled back, unease warring with hope in his chest. “You’re offering me something. What do you want in return?”

Rimmy Tim shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Sure. Just want that warm fuzzy feeling of doing good, huh?”

“Well, I do like warm fuzzy feelings…” Rimmy Tim drummed his knuckles against the table. “But here’s the reality: someone hired an assassin to kill us. We wanna know who did that. And we’d be real assholes if we hung you out to dry after you told us. So… if you wanna get out of that contract, you’ve got our protection. Fair’s fair.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes. “Ah, of course. You seem terribly concerned with not being assholes.”

“Is that so unbelievable?”

“Yes.”

“You know, the Fakes aren’t the worst thing in Los Santos.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

Rimmy Tim’s smile vanished. “Then maybe you should ask someone other than a cop.” He stood up and smacked the back of his hand against the Vagabond’s chest. “We’d better go, Vagabond. We’re gonna interrupt his date.”

Giving Trevor one more sidelong stare, the Vagabond rose from his seat. The two men walked off into the crowd while Trevor watched in awe. No one screamed. No one panicked. Rimmy Tim and the Vagabond walked between the food stands and not a single person gave them a glance.

There was no black and blue leather jacket, Trevor realized suddenly. No purple and orange, no cowboy hat. No star-spangled hockey masks. The two Fakes were wearing t-shirts and jeans, the Vagabond sporting a baseball cap. In civilian clothes, they were no more than another pair of locals wandering the greasy Los Santos docks.

Trevor dropped his eyes and tried to bury his attention in the newspaper, but the printed words swam. He took a trembling sip of coffee, too shaken to wince at the flavor. For better or for worse, and he suspected worse, he seemed to have Fake AH Crew’s full attention.

“Well well, if it isn’t an officer of the law, sitting all alone.”

This time, the voice that greeted him was the correct one. Trevor looked up as Alfredo flopped onto the cast iron chair, a paper-wrapped hot dog in his hand. The signature red hoodie was nowhere to be seen, replaced with a nondescript black t-shirt. Civilian clothes: the best disguise any criminal could have. Alfredo kept his eyes on his hot dog, trying to balance the towering pile of chili that topped it.

“You know, it doesn’t feel like I’m really in a new city until I’ve hit up a hotdog stand,” he mused. When he caught the look on Trevor’s face, he paused with the hot dog inches from his mouth. “…Baby? You okay?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah.” Trevor let out a long breath. “Hell of a city, Los Santos.”

“Hot dogs are that good, huh?”

Trevor leaned over the table. Sea breeze or not, he lowered his voice. “You would not  _ believe _ who I just had a talk with.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gun violence, corpse desecration, violent threats, a character being inebriated enough to say something they normally wouldn't say.

Wind whistled in the gulley.

The sun had dipped below the horizon just minutes ago, tinting the rugged landscape of Los Santos in lavender twilight. In a narrow rocky crevice not far from the nearest criminal hideout, Alfredo hunkered behind a craggy boulder. Between the steep walls, the evening light was even dimmer, reduced to indigo shadows. One end of the gulley opened towards the distant ocean. Alfredo could faintly hear waves. The other end of the gulley was a dead end. At that end, beneath an innocuous pile of stacked rocks, the local small-time criminals had hidden their brand new stash of incendiary grenades.

Any minute now, the Fakes should be arriving to take something that didn’t belong to them.

Alfredo’s red bandana trapped his breath close to his face. The boulder was starting to dig into his back. He was no stranger to a long stake-out, but this one was making him antsy. He had an unusual companion for this job: a red plastic canister of gasoline, slathered with warning labels. A whisper of acrid smell drifted on the evening breeze.

Without letting go of his pistol, Alfredo slipped his phone out of his pocket and typed out a text one-handed, hiding the glowing screen against his chest.

_You SURE they’re coming?_

It took a while for a response to appear. When it did, it was a paragraph.

_No, I’m not sure. In fact, I have no reason to believe they’re coming. I just thought it would be funny to make you stay up all night in a rocky hole, waiting for something that would never happen._

Alfredo frowned. A moment later, his phone lit up again.

_Yes I’m dang sure they’re coming._

Alfredo was texting back a colorful suggestion for what Trevor's smart mouth ought to be doing when a soft sound made him freeze. Silently, he slipped his phone away. Someone was humming cheerfully. After a moment, it was followed by a voice.

"This is Golden Boy, closing in on the shinies."

Footsteps were approaching. Alfredo pressed himself closer to his rocky cover, pistol cocked. In the hazy twilight, the footsteps passed his boulder and became a figure: lanky, wearing a navy suit and a shimmering gold mask. There was a slight sway in his step, as though to the rhythm of a song only he could hear.

The back of his head was scarce yards away. Alfredo lined up his silenced pistol and pulled the trigger. The bright humming stopped. 

Alfredo let out a relieved breath as he holstered his gun. That part of the job was familiar, at least. All he needed to do was destroy the body, not torture the man. The former was a lot quieter than the latter, and there could be other Fakes around.

Unscrewing the canister of gasoline didn’t feel anything like pulling a trigger. A harsh smell choked the gulley as he splashed glug after glug over the dead body, saturating the clothes and soaking into the hard earth. Alfredo took several steps back as he pulled out a lighter.

If this didn’t work, he might have to give up on killing the Fakes quietly or mercifully.

As soon as the tossed lighter hit the gasoline, flames bloomed over the body. Alfredo’s heart thumped as he watched it burn. The corpse crackled and spat, throwing shadows against the rocky walls. 

He couldn’t tell if it was working. He almost expected to see those dead limbs move.

Alfredo’s heart almost stopped when the cold barrel of a gun nudged the back of his neck.

“Hands up.”

…He’d turned his back to the exit. Fuck. Deep in his gut, Alfredo hadn’t wanted to be cornered if that burning corpse started to stand again. He shouldn’t have turned his back to the exit.

“I wouldn’t try anything.” The voice behind him was murmuring, almost as if to soothe him, but the words were muffled by a mask. “You’re a pretty quick shot. But I don’t think you’re _that_ quick.”

Slowly, shaking, Alfredo lifted his hands. The gun trailed across his neck like a finger as the man stepped around him and into his field of vision. Firelight from the burning body flickered against his brown leather jacket and his pale hockey mask. 

Mogar. The wolf of the Fakes. 

“So you’re the guy.” Mogar cocked his head. “The one who put a bullet in Rimmy. Twice.”

Professionalism had always been important to Alfredo. As he stood in the crosshairs of both the gun and Mogar’s gaze, he reminded himself that part of professionalism was not pissing your pants.

Mogar gave the charred corpse a quick nod. “Burning the body isn’t gonna keep him dead, you know.” 

The cold knowledge had already settled in Alfredo's chest. There was no concern in Mogar's body language, no fear that his comrade was really gone. Fire itself couldn't destroy them.

“I’m gonna ask you a couple questions, for business reasons. But the first one is for personal reasons.” The was a chill in Mogar’s voice, the type of chill that could heat up into an atom bomb if brushed the wrong way. “Was Golden Boy alive when you started burning him?”

Alfredo’s gaze dropped to the charred corpse. A strange and incorrect guilt gripped his throat and leaked into his voice, the guilt of someone who is so often breaking the rules that they find themselves lost and confused when they must admit to following one.

“No.”

“You sure? Think carefully. I’m gonna ask him later.”

“He was dead when I threw the lighter, I swear.”

“Good.” Mogar kept his gun raised, but seemed to unload the bullets from his voice. “Take that bandana off.”

Mogar’s voice had the tone of a person settling in for a long conversation. Alfredo didn’t like long conversations where he was held at gunpoint and the other person wanted to ask him questions. His gaze jumped to the open end of the gulley, where he could hear the distant crash of waves and see the first stars winking into the night sky.

“I wouldn’t try it.” Mogar’s voice was almost bored, his hand relaxed, but the gun was locked on Alfredo’s chest. “I’ve got orders to play nice with you, but if you wanna roll the dice and see how my self control holds up when I’ve got a moving target, go right ahead.”

Alfredo’s hand was almost shaking too hard to grip his bandana. He tugged it down until it hung limply around his neck, revealing his face.

“There you go.” Without moving his gun, Mogar reached up to his own mask. “Let me return the favor.” 

He slipped off the mask. The softness of a human face ought to have been less intimidating than the cold mask, but there was a danger in Mogar’s eyes that Alfredo wished wasn’t leveled at him. 

“An assassin with a red bandana, sniper rifle, and damn quick trigger finger…” Mogar gave Alfredo a small nod, as though confirming something. “We’ve been wondering if you were the infamous Alfredo ‘the Sauce’ Diaz.”

Alfredo swallowed. “I-I’m not doing autographs today.”

“Shame. I hear your record’s perfect.”

“It was, until I took a contract on the Fakes.”

“Sorry to break your streak.” Mogar circled him slowly. “Who’s your client?”

Alfredo shifted to keep the man in his vision. His hands felt empty without a gun. “You know I can’t tell you that, man."

"Sure you can. Whoever gave you that contract already did you wrong by not telling you the full story about us. What kind of loyalty do you owe some asshole who lied to you?” Mogar inclined his head. “You tell me who it is, I deal with them, and you get to stop killing us without me needing to kill you. Everyone wins.”

“Now that all sounds good on paper,” Alfredo rambled, "but what’s it gonna do for my reputation if I start ratting out clients?”

“What’s it gonna do for your reputation if you don’t have a pulse?”

“That’s not what your boss said last night. You’ve got orders to play nice, remember?”

Mogar's eyes narrowed and his pacing stopped. "Kingpin is a leader, not a dictator. He'd never make me do something I was uncomfortable with. And I don’t think I’m comfortable with you killing my friends unchecked anymore.” His grip on his gun tightened. “You’re not exactly minding your own business, are you?”

“Just doing my job. It’s not personal.”

“Oh, it’s personal to me. Tell me who your fucking client is, or I will _check_ you.” 

Despite the threat of the gun, Alfredo took a step back. “Y-you kill me, he’ll just hire someone else. You know that.” 

“If you’re that worried about your reputation, tell him I tortured you. He’ll buy it.” Mogar smiled. “I’ll even make it look convincing if you like. As a favor.”

Words stuck to the roof of Alfredo’s mouth like peanut butter. He wished the pale hockey mask was still shielding him from Mogar’s smile.

“You know what I think?” Mogar’s voice had softened, like a silenced gunshot. “I think the Sauce is too slick to get caught at gunpoint like this. You’re acting like you shrug off interrogations all the time, but you’re a sniper. You don’t work up close. I think you’re out of your depth, buddy.” Mogar took a step closer, his smile growing, the gun still pointed at Alfredo’s chest. “Not me, though. Up close is the only way I like to do it.”

Alfredo stumbled back with his hands lifted in surrender. “A-all right, all right! Don’t -- j-just _don’t_ , you’ve made your point!”

Mogar had the smile of a man who didn’t consider violence to be a chore. No matter what happened to Alfredo, or his client, or his career, he couldn’t let this situation end with a bullet in his skull.

He couldn’t do that to Trevor.

“If my client asks if you tortured me,” Alfredo mumbled, “you’ll back me up, yeah?”

“Of course, buddy.” Mercifully, Mogar didn’t come any closer. “I’ve got your back.”

One night in Miami, after a shared bottle of whisky had softened Trevor’s voice into velvet, he’d mumbled words against Alfredo’s neck that he never would have said sober. 

_“You’ll always come home alive, won’t you?”_

Alfredo let out a strained breath, trying to bite the words back for as long as possible. He’d never sold out a client before. “Ron Gold hired me to take out the Fakes,” he confessed, quickly, as though that would make things better. “All of ‘em. Six contracts, six heads.”

A look of genuine surprise crossed Mogar’s face. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Ron Gold the drug lord? Ha.” A strangely soft smile crossed Mogar’s face. “Golden Boy always took offense to that name. Refuses to call him anything but Smegging Ron.”

A troubled conscience was not an emotion that Alfredo associated with his profession, but the wistful affection in Mogar’s voice drew his gaze uncomfortably to the burning corpse. The bones were still smoldering, filling the air with a charred stink.

Mogar caught Alfredo’s eye. “Chill out, he’s not dead. Like I told you.” 

“You wanna tell me how you guys do that?” Alfredo ventured.

“Nope.” Mogar sighed. “Listen, Sauce, you’re in a real mile-deep shit pile, and I think you know it. We don’t stay dead. You’re not gonna be able to fill your contract.”

Alfredo’s steady voice didn’t match his racing heart. “I’ll make sure I stress about that if I walk out of this canyon alive.”

Mogar narrowed his eyes. After a moment, he holstered his gun.

“Listen. There’s a reason we call him Smegging Ron, and it’s not just to make Golden Boy happy. He’s a real piece of work. He gave you an impossible job and he’s gonna punish you for not being able to do it.”

Dangerous hope was creeping through Alfredo’s chest. He tried not to stare at Mogar’s holstered gun as he silently calculated how fast it could be drawn compared to his own gun. His voice didn’t change. “Like I said, sounds like a problem for future not-dead me.”

“I’m not gonna kill someone who just helped me.”

Gingerly, Alfredo lifted a hand and pointed towards the exit. “So… you won’t mind if I split, then?”

“Sauce, we can _help._ We can get him off your back. The Fakes have been wanting to waste Smegging Ron for a while, we’ll gladly do it pro-bono. Especially if you’re willing to share any intel you have.”

Alfredo took a slow, tentative step towards safety. Mogar sighed.

“Fine. You asked how we come back, right?” Mogar pulled something out of his pocket; a phone. “Want a hint?”

Alfredo froze. Mogar started dialing; both hands too occupied to draw a gun. Alfredo’s hand twitched towards his own gun. A shot between the eyes wouldn’t keep Mogar dead, but it _would_ cover Alfredo’s escape.

“You can go if you want.” The phone was ringing in Mogar’s hand. “But I’m about to make a quick call to the Fake headquarters. If you listen in, you might learn something.”

Alfredo clenched his hand into a fist next to the holster. “Why?”

“So you understand.” The dying fires from the burned corpse were flickering against Mogar’s phone. “You can’t kill us.” 

The phone beeped as someone answered. 

“Hey, Kingpin.” Mogar spoke before the phone could make a sound. “You’re on speaker. I’m having a chat with our biggest fan right now.” 

Over the phone, someone barked in offense, muffled by distance. A much closer voice laughed.

_“We already hired our biggest fan. He’s upset that you forgot.”_

“I’m talking about the one that keeps expressing his interest with sniper rounds.”

_“Oh, that fan.”_

“Put Golden Boy on the phone, will you?”

_“I thought he was out with you?”_

“He was. He’s back now.”

_“…I see. Give me just a moment.”_

The phone was quiet. Escape beckoned to Alfredo, but he kept his eyes locked on the screen. This was too much intel to walk away from.

With a muffle, a new and familiar voice chirped over the phone. _“Ello, Mogey!”_

Alfredo shot a panicked look at the burning body, little more than bones now. That had definitely been Golden Boy. The voice on the phone sure as shit sounded like Golden Boy too. How was he in two places at once?

 _“Sorry to leave so suddenly.”_ Golden Boy was still talking, as though he wasn’t dead and burnt to a crisp at Alfredo’s feet. _“No bloody clue what happened.”_

“Our sniper buddy bipped you.” Mogar held Alfredo’s gaze like a fist, his voice far lighter than his expression. “Hey, he didn’t do anything to you while you were alive, did he?”

_“Well he bloody well killed me, innit?”_

“That’s all, huh?” Mogar finally released his steely grip on Alfredo’s gaze, and his expression lightened with a chuckle. “Good talk, Golden Boy. See you at home.” 

_“I’ll save a kiss for you!”_

“You better.” Mogar hung up, pocketing the phone. “Nice to meet you, Sauce. See you around.”

Mogar’s face disappeared behind his mask as he slipped it back on. Hands in his pockets, he strolled towards the weapon stash at the back of the gulley, leaving Alfredo free to go. On his way out, Mogar tossed a look at the barely-recognizable charred remains of Golden Boy.

“Idiot,” he murmured affectionately. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Brief transphobic language. Gun violence. Assault, nonconsensually sexualized violence. Kidnapping parallels.

The terrain just outside Los Santos was broken by shallow gullies, carved into the rocky earth by creeks. Highways rolled across these tiny canyons on concrete bridges. When it stormed, the creeks swelled with rain, water poured off the overpass in sheets, and it was impossible to see or hear any suspect meeting of persons beneath the bridge.

Which was just as well, because the two people huddling beneath the bridge had some very suspect things to say.

“What are we supposed to do? Burn them alive?”

Alfredo winced. The suggestion hung uncomfortably in the rainy air as Alfredo tried to avoid Trevor’s intense gaze. The hoodie softened Trevor’s polished look, even with that shiny police badge poking out through the open zipper, but the look in his eyes was a little too earnest. Like he’d be willing to throw the match. 

“You don’t like the idea,” Trevor stated at last.

Alfredo sighed. “It’s just…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s not how the Sauce does things.” Alfredo’s foot bounced nervously on the wet pavement. “Clean and silent, you know? I don’t light men on fire and watch them scream.” 

Trevor stared up at the dripping overpass. “I don’t even think it would keep them dead, honestly.”

“Me neither. Mogar didn’t flinch when he saw the burning body. I think he would have been a little more upset if fire could kill them.”

A big eighteen wheeler rolled overhead, making the bridge rumble and creak.

“Did you learn anything else?”

Alfredo huffed. “I learned that the Fakes want Ron Gold dead. And they offered to protect me from him if I flipped.”

“They brought that up again?”

“Mogar was nearly begging me.” 

“That’s a hard thing to picture. What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. And then he let me go.”

Rain drummed outside the overpass. 

“I don’t trust them,” Alfredo said at last.

Trevor shook his head. “Me neither.”

“But they’re right about one thing.” Alfredo heaved a long sigh of surrender. “I don’t know how to kill them. I don’t… I don’t think it can be done.”

“What does this mean for us?”

“I guess…” Alfredo rubbed a hand over his face. “I guess I have to drop the contract. I don’t know what else to do.”

Trevor sighed heavily. “Ron’s not gonna like that.”

Alfredo’s pocket buzzed. He grunted in distaste as he fished his phone out. “Speak of the devil.” He lifted the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

A voice like a silk-wrapped gun answered. _“Well, if it isn’t my favorite assassin.”_

“Don’t say ‘if it isn’t’ when you’re the one who called.”

_“Always the charmer.”_

“Charmer?” Alfredo flashed a quick smile at Trevor. “I get good reviews.”

_“You certainly do. Indeed, I’ve heard such wonderful things about your skills, I hate to doubt them…”_

“Hey, no reason to start now.”

_“But here’s the thing. You told me weeks ago that you’d killed Rimmy Tim. Then suddenly you sent the payment back and said he wasn’t really dead. And I’ve barely heard from you since. When a routine assassination becomes this peculiar, I feel compelled to check in.”_

Alfredo swallowed. “Listen… the job got complicated. A lot more complicated than you let on, if I’m honest.”

_“Is that so? What you and I need is a face-to-face, Sauce. Come to my humble abode and let’s talk. Late contract or not, I’ll spare no expense to wine and dine you.”_

Trevor raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Alfredo gave him a quick nod before speaking into the phone. 

“I’m late with your job and you think I’m gonna meet you on _your_ turf? I didn’t live this long by being that trusting.”

_“Why sir, you wound me. You think I have intentions on the life of my own employee?”_

“It’s all business, my guy. You understand business, right?”

_“Ah haha! Very well, we’ll meet somewhere a little more neutral. Say… the parking deck on the north side, second floor. You know the one.”_

“Oh I know the one. Contractor, by the way,” Alfredo added. “You ain’t handing me any W-2 forms come tax season, I’m not your employee.”

_“Very well, my good contractor. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.”_

The call ended. The drumming downpour of rain echoed beneath the overpass, uninterrupted by words for a few moments. Trevor was the one to voice the deadly question.

“You think he’s gonna kill you?”

Alfredo sighed. “Don’t think that’s his plan right now. Big boss criminals have this nasty habit of saying some ominously vague shit when they’re about to kill you. Nah, I think he’s gonna threaten me a bit, wave his dick around, warn me not to piss him off, and then offer to buy me bigger guns.” 

“Uh huh.” Trevor cast an uncertain glance at the pouring rain outside. “And when you tell him you’re breaking the contract?”

“Yeah, then he’ll try to kill me.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Alfredo frowned. “The hell you are.”

“He’s got scary men with guns and he wants you dead, you need backup.”

“Yeah, and you can’t be there for that.” 

“We made a deal, Alfredo.” Trevor’s voice was sharpening. “We don’t baby each other.”

“We made another deal: we stick to our roles.” Alfredo grabbed Trevor’s shiny new police badge, tilting it so the grey rainy daylight reflected on it. “I’m the hit man, you’re the cop. How’s it gonna look if the LSPD knows you were peekin’ in when a drug lord and an assassin were talking shop?”

Trevor visibly bit his tongue. After a few tense moments, he let out a long breath and shoved Alfredo’s hand off his badge. 

“At least take some precautions,” he begged. “Pack some kevlar. Don’t let him take your guns away.” 

“I know, babe.”

Trevor dropped his gaze and fidgeted with the drawstring of Alfredo’s hoodie. “Be careful,” he murmured.

"You worry too much."

"I thought you liked that about me."

——

Twenty minutes later, the rain had only become heavier.

In the nearly-empty parking deck, the downpour was a strange wet rumble that reverberated through the concrete. Alfredo leaned against a pillar and passed the time by thinking about how to survive the next hour of his life.

Second floor. That limited his escape options. Alfredo took quick mental stock of where the stairwells and elevators were. Even if Ron Gold wasn’t coming here with the intention of killing anyone, he’d surely still have a guard at each exit. It was nothing personal, it was just how people like Ron lived and breathed.

It didn’t take long for the man himself to arrive. Alfredo could tell when the right car rolled up: this wasn’t the kind of parking deck where someone might leave their immaculate, tinted-window Bravado Gauntlet. The car was sleek silver, but that was the only subtle thing about it. Alfredo could practically see his reflection in those darkened windows as it pulled up to him.

The bodyguards stepped out first: two tall men wearing glossy sunglasses, suits, and scowls. Alfredo gave them both a nod of recognition, which they didn’t return. One of them opened the passenger door, and Ron Gold emerged from the silver muscle car.

Ron Gold’s tailor was an absolute master craftsman. The fine cuts of fabric slimmed and shaped his silhouette into something affable and attractive, something that screamed “friendly rich uncle” with every expensive thread. His clothes were no less pricey than his sleekly styled hair, or the diamond-studded watch that flashed on his wrist, but the latter two couldn’t boast the same subtle deception.

Rumor had it the body beneath Ron Gold’s clothes was a different beast entirely. No caviar-fed potbelly lay within that perfect suit: the man was crude brawn and scars, like a starved lion. The relics of how he had reached power still lingered on his skin and bones. His clothes were pure gentleman, but his body was all brute.

That suit, that immaculately crafted suit, was tailored to make you _think_ he was hiding a soft wealthy potbelly.

“Ah, there he is!” The edges of Ron Gold’s voice had been carefully filed down into upper class smoothness. “The Sauce himself!”

“Sorry I never call anymore,” Alfredo said dryly.

“So, the job…” Ron Gold slipped his hands into his expensive suit pockets, softening his voice. “Talk to me, Sauce. What’s going on? Do you want bigger guns?”

Always with the guns. Alfredo sighed. Why did people think that bigger guns made people more dead?

“Listen…” Alfredo collected his words carefully. “I’m not gonna take it personally, but you weren’t completely honest about this job.”

Ron Gold frowned. Not a _real_ frown, involving the natural contortion of a human face unable to conceal anger. It was a polite, expensive frown, one that wouldn’t disturb a champagne glass. “Not honest?”

“The job is impossible. You can’t kill a Fake. Real funny you never mentioned that, when everyone in Los Santos knows it.”

“Pssh!” Ron Gold shoved the notion aside in disgust. “Superstition of the masses! The people are scared of the big men with guns so they apply an urban mythology to the whole thing. You can’t seriously believe all that nonsense.”

“Oh, I didn’t believe it when I shot Rimmy Tim the first time.” Alfredo drummed his fingers against the holster on his belt. “Hell, didn’t even believe it when I shot him the second time. But when he came back _again_? Bullets are expensive, man, I can’t be wasting them on people who don’t stay dead.”

“Listen, Al… can I call you Al?”

“Hell no.”

“Very well. The Sauce. Valued _contractor.”_ Ron Gold spread his arms with a plaintive smile. “I hope you understand the importance of this job. Yes, this is about my personal wealth, and yours, but it’s more than just that. None of us want people like them running the city.”

Alfredo blinked. “…Yeah. Wouldn’t want some criminals running the city.”

“Ha! Ha.” For a moment, just a moment, Ron Gold’s voice sounded like the man he was, a man who could break bones with his hands. “Los Santos will always be run by criminals. It’s a beautiful afterlife of guns and money. Now, what kind of criminals do you want running it?”

Alfredo knew a monologue when he saw one. He let silence hang between them, and Ron Gold gladly filled it.

“I don’t know about you, but I’d rather deal with men who do crime the way it’s always been done. Men with predictable motives; pride, money, ambition.” He let out a scornful breath, the kind that felt incomplete without an expensive plume of cigar smoke. “The Fakes aren’t men like that. They can’t decide what their goal is any more than they can decide what bathroom to use.”

The words hit Alfredo in a place he wasn’t expecting to take a punch today. It took a moment of physical concentration to keep his hand motionless on his hip, away from his gun.

“Maybe you didn’t understand me.” The humor had gone from Alfredo’s voice. “The Sauce is no longer taking your job.”

Displeasure soured Ron Gold’s expression for a moment. His jaw was slightly tenser as he spoke. “You don't want to break a contract with me, Sauce.”

“The contract is void if you lied about the target. I didn’t break the contract; you did.”

“Think about this. This won’t do good things for your reputation.”

“ _My_ reputation?” Alfredo’s finger twitched on his hip. “You lied in a contract, do you think any gun for hire is gonna want to work for you? Here’s _my_ offer: we leave now on good terms, and I won’t mention your indiscretions.”

The class was leaking out of Ron Gold’s demeanor like water from a sponge. “I won’t lie, Sauce. I’m not happy to hear that.”

“I’m not happy to be saying it, but I’m not taking it back.”

For several torturous heartbeats, Ron Gold leveled a withering glare at Alfredo, no gentleman decorum left in his eyes. This time, he didn’t rush to alleviate the silence. The only sound was the rumble of rain and the screaming instinct in Alfredo’s chest to draw his gun.

With a sigh, Ron Gold turned away. He had gathered his refined tone by the time he spoke. “I believe you and I are finished here, Sauce. My men will see you out.”

…Now _that_ was the kind of ambiguous shit that a boss man would say right before he had you killed.

Ron Gold slipped into the passenger’s seat. As the door was closing, his hand lifted.

The gun had flicked from Alfredo’s holster into his palm before Ron Gold’s hand had even lowered again. Both bodyguards were still reaching for their own weapons as his bullets _ripped_ into their throats, two shots for each of them. Alfredo didn’t wait to hear their bodies hit the floor before he was bolting for the nearest stairwell.

Being a hired gun was all about having an innate sense for when things were about to go to shit.

The stairwell was small, cramped, and his only way out. A smart bodyguard would be just inside, around the corner, waiting to flank Alfredo when he stepped through the door. Alfredo yanked the door open, stuck his gun around the corner, and took a blind shot. There was a dull _thump_ of a bullet hitting flesh, a death rattle, and then someone grabbed Alfredo’s arm and hauled him into the room.

The concrete slammed into his face. Sideways, Alfredo could see blood pouring from the body of the goon he’d shot. The second one was pinning him down, a boot pressing against his back. 

“Easy, princess. Let’s get those hands behind your back.” The boot ground between his shoulder blades until Alfredo hissed in pain. “I’ve got some steel bracelets that’ll look real pretty on you.”

Alfredo fumbled with his hands, moving them behind his back. “Enterprising individual, huh?” Fear made his words tight. “Guess the boss man hands out sweet bonuses for taking people alive?”

“Oh, you’ve got no idea. Mr. Gold likes making an example of people who cross him.” The foot pressed down harder. “What d’you think he’ll do to a bitch like you?”

Alfredo winced against the floor as the man grabbed his arm roughly. “N-nothing that he’d appreciate you doing for him!” 

The grip on his arm tightened, twisting his arm harder than it needed to. Alfredo bit his lip to keep from cursing in pain.

“Aww, I dunno about that. What the boss don’t know won’t hurt him, yeah?”

A single gunshot _BANGED_ in the stairwell. The grip on Alfredo’s arm went slack and a body thumped onto the concrete next to him. Alfredo was scrambling for his gun as he rolled over, but he froze at the sight that greeted him.

A man stood over him, dressed in a crisp navy suit and a shiny gold hockey mask with a violently green star. A gun was smoking in his hand. He lifted his mask and gave Alfredo a bright, handsome smile.

“Ello, Saucy!” He held out a hand, a clear offer to help Alfredo to his feet. “Got in a bad spot with Smegging Ron, eh?”

The urgency of a gunfight snapped Alfredo’s limbs into action without waiting for clearance from his brain. He grabbed the man’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled upright. Golden Boy flicked his mask back down, but Alfredo could somehow tell he was smiling behind it. 

“Right then, let’s get you out of here!”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Why? Why? I’m bloody yanking you out of a firefight, are you gonna be put off if I’m doing it for the wrong reason?”

A spray of bullets hammered against the other side of the door. Golden Boy fired a few shots through the narrow window, shattering the glass.

“Watch the stairs, yeah? I’ve got the parking deck, don’t let any come up behind us.” 

Alfredo cocked his gun. “Hey, not to tell you how to do your job, but shouldn’t we get the hell out of here?”

“Nah boy, rescue’s coming!” 

The sound of heavy footsteps and barked orders interrupted Alfredo’s thoughts. He trained his gun on the stairs and blasted the moment he saw a head appear. More shouts echoed up the stairwell.

“Hey.” Alfredo spoke without pulling his eyes or gun away from the stairs. “Sorry I killed you and burned your body.”

“You burned my damn body? What’d you do that for?”

“Thought it might keep you dead.”

“Ah. Well. It didn’t.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

A sudden bold noise cut through the gunfire and the drumming of rain: a brassy car horn bellowing out the first few notes of _Smoke on the Water._ Alfredo could hear a screech of tires and an upsettingly human scream.

Golden Boy laughed and shoved the door open. “There she is, right on time! Cover our six, mate, we’re getting out of here!” 

A hot yellow classic Monroe had pulled up to the stairwell door, as close as it could get without climbing the curb, raindrops glinting on the candy-bright paint job. It would have been an eye-catching car if Alfredo hadn’t been preoccupied with not getting shot. The window was rolled down, giving Alfredo a brief view of the driver. Soft russet hair billowed out around her hockey mask.

“Get in!” she barked.

A snap of bullets gave him no choice. Alfredo yanked open the door and scrambled inside, followed by Golden Boy, and then the car was moving.

Alfredo had never seen someone corner through a parking deck at such a breakneck speed. The momentum slammed him against the side of the car as the tires screeched under them. As they screamed around the corners and down the ramp and towards the exit, Alfredo was stunned that he never felt the impact of the car bumping against another solid object.

Then they were out on the open street, and the car really _flew._

Rain pounded against the windshield, reducing it to an impressionist painting of the road ahead. The driver seemed to read it like a second language, not slowing her pace for a moment. In the backseat, Alfredo caught his breath. 

He’d just been rescued by the Fakes. 

“Sorry for making you wait, boys.” The driver was weaving wildly between lanes of traffic, but that didn’t stop her from taking one hand off the wheel to give Alfredo a friendly wave. “Hello, the Sauce! Nice to meet you! Sorry, I’ve gotta keep my eyes on the road.”

Alfredo couldn’t see the woman in the driver’s seat, but he recognized the auburn hair and the Hawiian shirt. Her gaze was focused on the road, but occasionally her bright eyes would flash up to the rearview mirror and lock on him through the holes in her mask. At the speed she was driving, putting a bullet in her head would kill everyone in the car. The raw speed of the vehicle was more dangerous than the visible pistol hanging from Golden Boy’s belt.

The Golden Boy himself was sprawled in his seat like it was a couch, no seatbelt. Not necessary, Alfredo supposed, for a man who couldn’t die. If they wrecked, the only one who would stay dead was Alfredo. 

…Fuck, he should have taken his chances with Ron Gold’s bodyguards.

“So, Saucy…” The Golden Boy leaned back against the car door and kicked his feet across Alfredo’s legs. “Me and the lads like you. Wanna be friends?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Kidnapping parallels, threats of violence, blackmail, fearing for the safety of a loved one, doxxing parallels, a character lying about their wellbeing to protect someone else, discussions of nonconsensual video surveillance, invasion of electronic privacy, reference to transphobic language used in previous chapter, unintentional consent issues regarding whether a character is safe or allowed to leave a situation.

Rain clouds cast wet shadows over the San Andreas countryside. A speeding Monroe zoomed over drenched pavement, such a bright buttery yellow that it looked like the only object catching sunlight. 

Two immortals and one very stressed assassin rode inside.

The country getaway of the Fake AH Crew was stately even in the gray pallor of rain. A fearsome gate opened as the car rolled up, as though to shepherd them inside. Alfredo’s face was nearly pressed to the glass as he watched them slip past that imposing threshold. 

The car finally came to a stop beside the house itself, as close to the covered porch as it could get. Golden Boy cracked his door open just a hair and shot Alfredo a look. 

“Let’s get you inside, yeah? Dreadful weather.” 

As though the rain was the worst of his worries, Alfredo rushed from the warm dry car to the shelter of the roofed porch. He lingered there with Golden Boy as the driver rolled down her window, flicked up her hockey mask, and gave them a bright, friendly smile.

“Show the guest inside, Golden Boy. I’ll park the car.”

Golden Boy threw a salute. “Will do, love!”

“Be good!”

“I never am!” 

With an aggressive engine rev, the car snarled off into the rain. Alfredo watched it go with a sense of detached horror.

He wondered if he could jump the fence. Probably not.

Golden Boy elbowed him in the ribs. “That’s Wheels,” he whispered, as though sharing an exciting secret.

Alfredo shot him a look. “I know. Got a picture of her on my wall with a big red X on it, just like the rest of my targets.”

Golden Boy laughed, clapped Alfredo on the shoulder, and turned him towards the door. “Let’s introduce you to the lads, Saucy.”

The Fakes’ estate was probably very fancy and nice to look at, but Alfredo kept his eyes on the door as he was marched towards it. His pistol beckoned to his palm, but he had a feeling he’d be safer if he didn’t draw it. Golden Boy pushed the door open without knocking.

The room inside was simple and cozy, a pleasant escape from the pounding rain, but the scene Alfredo walked into was a strange one. There stood Mogar, no less intimidating without his leather jacket, and there stood Rimmy Tim, dressed down in a simple tee-shirt. Both men had guns pointed at the other’s head. As the door opened, Mogar and Rimmy Tim turned their attention away from each other and both smiled at Alfredo.

“Ah, there he is!” Rimmy Tim laughed and slipped the pistol back into his belt. “There’s the man that keeps blasting me!”

Alfredo flinched. “What the hell did I just walk into?”

“Just playin’ musical pistols,” Mogar replied, as though that explained  _ anything.  _ “So where'd he shoot you, Rimmy?"

Rimmy Tim tapped a finger between his own eyes. "Right here."

"Right here?” Mogar nudged the same spot with his pistol. “Huh. From how far away?"

“Point blank."

"Oh. Well, that's cheating.”

Alfredo narrowed his eyes. “You’ve all got a damn freaky way of asking to be friends.”

Mogar barked a laugh, finally putting away his gun. “You should see how these maniacs ask to be lovers.”

Golden Boy scoffed as he shut the door. “Now that’s a proper way to behave around guests! Waving guns around like that, he’ll think we’re a bunch of violent pricks.”

“And I’ll have you know,” Alfredo continued hotly, “I didn’t  _ need  _ to shoot him at point blank. Took him out just fine behind Credit and Commerce, several stories up.”

In a blink, Golden Boy’s smile was back. “Good thing we’re all violent pricks here, yeah? You’re a real  _ wicked _ shot, Saucy, no mistake. Fancy a shoot-off some time? See who’s got the quicker finger? I’ll be a good boy and aim for targets, but you can aim for my head if you like.” 

Rimmy Tim gave Golden Boy a friendly shove that nearly sent him to the floor. “Quit flirting, you didn’t bring him here for that.” 

“...Yeah, about that.” Alfredo cast a glance across the Fakes. “Hate to ask, but why  _ did  _ you bring me here?”

Golden Boy was rubbing his arm where Rimmy Tim had shoved him. “Gettin’ you away from Smegging Ron, for one. S’not like he’s gonna follow you here.”

Mogar picked up a shotgun from a table, hefting it as though checking the weight. With his eyes on the gun, he flopped into an armchair. “That, and we’ve got business with you.”

“Business?”

“Your ex-client.” Mogar pointed his gun at the wall, shutting one eye as though aiming -- as though a shotgun was a precision tool. “You’ve pissed off Smegging Ron. What are you gonna do about him?”

Alfredo flopped into a well-worn chair, resting his chin in his hand. “Man, if only I knew some sort of… professional killer of people. Someone with expertise in wasting a bitch. I could just ask that guy to blast Ron for me.”

Mogar pulled the trigger and the empty shotgun  _ clicked.  _ “Well, if you meet a guy like that, ask if he wants some extra firepower. The Fakes would  _ love  _ to get in on that action.”

A soft buzzing in Alfredo’s pocket brought silence over the room as though someone had struck a gong.

Slowly, Golden Boy smiled. “Ooh. Is that your cop boyfriend?”

Alfredo pressed his hand protectively over his buzzing phone. “Hey, leave him out of this. You and me, we’re cool, we can do business, yeah? He doesn’t need to get involved.”

Mogar chuckled and shot Rimmy Tim a look. “It’s like he knows what we do to cops.”

“You’d better pick up.” Rimmy Tim slipped the pistol out of his belt, looking it over as though inspecting it for dust. “Wouldn’t want him to get suspicious.”

Alfredo’s gaze jumped from one Fake to the next. With a hard swallow, he reached into his pocket and answered his phone.

“H-hey, babe.”

_ “Hey. How’d things go with Ron?” _

Alfredo kept the phone pressed against his ear as though that could protect Trevor from the deadly men that surrounded him. “From where I’m standing? Pretty well. I’m alive and the contract is dropped.”

_ “Uh huh. And how’s Ron feel about that?” _

“He seemed pretty pissed when I was shooting his bodyguards.”

_ “You don’t say.” _

Rimmy Tim leaned on the back of Alfredo’s chair, pistol dangling from one gloved hand. Alfredo’s gaze darted nervously to and away from the gun.

“H-hey, were you just calling to check in?” he rambled into the phone.

_ “No, I’ve got good news. Think I found leverage over the Fakes. It’s risky, though.”  _

“I don’t like the sound of risk.” Alfredo prayed his voice was calm. “We’ve got time. I don’t wanna make a misstep around these guys.”

_ “…You okay?” _

“Yeah! Yeah yeah, I just…” Alfredo twitched as Rimmy Tim casually cocked his gun. “I’m laying low, trying to lose a few cops. Getting away from Ron got some heat on me. Can’t really talk right now.”

_ “…Ah, I see. Well, I’ll leave you to it. See you tonight.” _

“No no no no no baby—“ Alfredo’s hand shook on the phone as he pressed it to his ear. “Listen, I know you’re assuming I’ve been kidnapped, but I have  _ not  _ been kidnapped.”

_ “Yes, I believe you.” _

“I mean it. This is not a code. I have not been kidnapped. We clear?”

_ “Roger that.” _

“Trevor, I feel like you’re assuming I’ve been kidnapped.”

_ “Of course not. If you’d been kidnapped, you’d have that extremely distinctive ‘I’ve been kidnapped’ tone.” _

Alfredo rubbed a hand over his face as Rimmy Tim loudly cocked his gun again for no goddamn reason. “Y-you want me to come over right now? Soon as the sirens go quiet, I’ll come see you and prove I’m all good.”

_ “Sure, if that would make you feel better.” _

Rimmy Tim plucked the phone from Alfredo’s hand. Alfredo’s panicked grab met only air as Rimmy Tim stepped neatly out of range, already talking into the phone.

“Hey, cop.” His pistol was still drawn, his thumb rubbing idle circles over the metal as he smirked. “The Sauce is right, he hasn’t been kidnapped.”

Alfredo’s heart pounded. He could still hear Trevor’s voice faintly.

_ “…Rimmy Tim. If he’s been hurt, you and your crew are going to hurt a lot more.” _

Rimmy Tim caught Alfredo’s gaze. He glanced at his own gun as though just remembering he was holding it, whispered, “ _ it’s not loaded, _ ” and slipped it back into his belt. Speaking into the phone again, he said, “Listen, we’re not gonna hurt him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not in trouble. Ron Gold is gunning for him.”

“Smegging Ron,” Golden Boy spat under his breath.

“We had to pull him out of a shootout,” Rimmy Tim continued. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

_ “I don’t believe you for a second.” _

“That’s fine, you don’t have to believe us. You can believe the Sauce next time you see him.”

_ “Just tell me what you want.” _

“What I want?” Rimmy Tim drummed his fingers against the back of Alfredo’s chair. “I mean, I guess I’ve always wanted to be a guest voice actor for —”

_ “For Alfredo. What do you want in exchange for his release?” _

“Oh, you don’t have to bargain for that. He can leave any time.”

Alfredo blinked. Rimmy Tim sounded serious. “Wait, are you shitting me?”

Mogar shrugged as he pressed shells into his shotgun one at a time. “Door’s right there. Like we said, we don’t want anything from you, we’re just offering to help.” 

_ “Of course.”  _ Trevor’s voice was patient, too patient. _ “I’ll just wait for him to come home, then.” _

The phone clicked.

Alfredo shook his head numbly. “He doesn’t believe you.” 

“Yeah?" Rimmy Tim tossed the phone back. “What’s his next move, you think?”

By reflex, Alfredo caught the phone out of the air. “Sh-shit, he’s probably already on his way.”

——

Trevor  _ was _ already on his way. He’d gotten in the car the second Alfredo claimed to be hiding from the cops. The elaborate electric gate was opening for him before he could even tap the brakes.

He shouldn’t be surprised that they were expecting him.

The door was unlocked. Trevor didn’t knock before shoving it open and barging inside.

There were four men in the room, but Trevor only cared about one. In the center of the room was a miracle. Alfredo stood in the hideout of the Fakes, alive, unbound, and unharmed.

As for the other three men… Trevor recognized two of them from photos. He’d met Rimmy Tim in person.

“Damn it, Trev!” Alfredo snapped, “I  _ told  _ you I wasn’t kidnapped!”

Trevor gestured in frustration at the assembled Fakes and their mansion fortress. “You were  _ clearly _ lying!”

“Yeah, but it would have been nice if you fell for it!”

Mogar sighed. He was sprawled in a squishy leather chair, his legs kicked up over the arm as he cleaned a menacing-looking shotgun. “Again, we didn’t kidnap him, we rescued him.”

“Did they hurt you?” Trevor pressed.

Mogar flung up his arms in exasperated surrender.

“Nah, they were just  _ weird _ . Kept touching their guns.” 

Golden Boy whistled softly. He strolled right up into Trevor’s personal space, looking him over like he was a beautiful new car model.

“Oh, you’re  _ lovelier _ in person,” he purred. “Real glad you’re not a proper cop. Be a right shame if we couldn’t be friends.” 

Trevor met the man’s gaze evenly. “I know how you come back.”

Golden Boy’s smile dissolved. Suddenly, the casual playfulness in the room was gone. Trevor felt like he had several guns pointed at his head even though the Fakes hadn’t moved.

“When Kingpin and Vagabond let me in last time, I bugged the room.” Trevor tried to get the words out quickly before the palpable threat sharpened into something visceral. “I know how you do it, how you just wake up back here after you die. And if you don’t want me to tell the world, you’ll let me and Alfredo walk out of here.”

A quick flash of gold was the only warning Trevor had before steel was pricking his throat.

Alfredo lunged forward, halted by Rimmy Tim’s harsh grip on his arm. “No, don’t—!”

Golden Boy’s intense expression hadn’t changed when he pulled the knife out. Trevor’s heart pounded as he met the man’s eyes. He could feel the blade pricking his skin, honed sharp.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Trevor murmured. “You think I’ve gotten dumber since I last came here? I’ve got all the audio on an email and it’ll auto-send to every news outlet in Los Santos unless I delete it myself.” 

“Y-you don’t have shite.” Golden Boy hadn’t put his knife away. “The only hidden cameras around here are  _ mine. _ ”

“You’d better be very, very sure of that.” 

“Easy, Golden Boy.”

The voice was Rimmy Tim’s. His grip on Alfredo’s arm was solid, but there was something chillingly unbothered about his expression.

“There’s no need for that, buddy. Put the knife away.” 

With a soft huff, as though candy was being taken away from him, Golden Boy flicked the knife away and stalked off, leaving Trevor unharmed. Rimmy Tim let go of Alfredo’s arm, but an invisible understanding hung in the air. Alfredo didn’t move.

“Hey, cop. Trevor, was it? I’m curious about something.” Rimmy Tim walked over to him, somehow exuding more danger than Golden Boy's knife. “So you’ve got our big secret. What do we call it?”

Trevor hesitated. Something about that calmness was making him uneasy. “What do who call what?”

“When a Fake dies and comes back, what do we call it? There’s a word for it, and we never use that word around other people.” 

Trevor felt like he was slowly absorbing all the doubt in the room, drawing it out of the Fakes and into his own chest. The cornered fear in Mogar and Golden Boy’s eyes was subsiding into a relieved realization as the seconds ticked by without an answer.

He didn’t know. He had no idea what Rimmy Tim was talking about.

The patience in Rimmy Tim’s voice was a mockery. “Come on, not gonna even take a guess?”

“I-it’s— it’s called—“ Trevor swallowed. “Uh— grave-robbing.” 

Mogar  _ snorted,  _ muffling his laugh behind his hand. Trevor’s stomach was twisting into knots, and still Rimmy Tim wouldn’t look away from him.

“It’s called  _ respawning,  _ buddy,” he murmured. He thumped his knuckles lightly against Trevor’s chest, knocking him back half a step. “And you’d know that if you’d  _ actually  _ been eavesdropping on us.”

Golden Boy was glancing rapidly between Trevor and Rimmy Tim. “…He was bluffing? He doesn’t know?”

“Sure doesn’t.” Rimmy Tim strode away from Trevor as though finished with him. “He doesn’t know a damn thing that we didn’t tell him, just cobbled together a story he knew would scare us. There’s no secret footage and no email. Am I right, cop?” 

Mogar rested his shotgun against his shoulder. “Looks like he  _ has  _ gotten dumber since he last saw us.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. That was a  _ damn  _ good bluff.” It was strange how much a smile took the edge out of Rimmy Tim’s expression. “The Kingpin was right, he’s impressive. This was the risky leverage you were telling the Sauce about, huh?”

“Not a smart risk to take, cop,” Mogar grunted. 

Desperation yanked Trevor’s eyes towards Alfredo. With a wince, his gaze lowered to the floor. Trevor had feigned surrender to the Fakes before. This was not feigned.

“…What do you want?” he breathed, each word grating on him.

Mogar heaved a frustrated sigh and pointed at the door with his shotgun. “For the last fucking time, we haven’t kidnapped the Sauce. You can both go.”

At last, the words clicked. “...You’re serious.” Trevor couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. “You really just rescued him and… and that’s it? You don’t want anything in return?”

Mogar shoved the suggestion aside with a huff. “We already got something in return. The Sauce told us his client.”

Rimmy Tim shot Mogar a pointed look. “Wonder what convinced him to do that.”

“My point exactly.” Mogar shrugged. “I really screwed him over. A rescue is the least we owed him after that.”

With a sigh, Rimmy Tim placed a hand on Alfredo’s shoulder and shoved him towards Trevor. “Go on, if you stay any later we’re gonna have to order more pizza for this evening.”

Alfredo stumbled a few steps. Then, when movement failed to trigger a response in the Fakes, he rushed into Trevor’s arms as though gravity itself pulled him there. As soon as that familiar body  _ thumped  _ against him, Trevor’s world melted. There were no Fakes, no guns, just the desperate squeeze of Alfredo’s arms and the reassuring warmth of breath against his shoulder. 

After all this time, he should be used to the uncertainty of whether Alfredo would come home again after each mission. But he wasn’t. He never was.

“I’m okay.” Alfredo whispered the words. “It’s all right, babe, I’m okay. Now quit hugging me, they’re gonna think I like you.” 

“You started it,” Trevor whispered back, his voice cracking. With one more heartfelt squeeze, he released Alfredo and turned his attention back to the Fakes. 

Three world-class criminals, armed, all looking at him and wanting something from him. It didn’t feel like a room he was allowed to walk out of. Trevor took Alfredo’s hand, took a step towards the door, and nothing happened.

Rimmy Tim’s voice was light and friendly, but there was something serious in his eyes. “It was a good bluff, but don’t pull that shit again, Trevor. We’re not planning to hurt you guys. Don’t give us a reason to.” 

Trevor yanked Alfredo out the door before the Fakes could change their mind.

——

The rain had nearly cleared. Sunlight broke through scattered clouds in soft beams, chasing away the chill. A few stray drops were still beaded on Trevor’s windshield.

“Holy shit,” Alfredo breathed.

Trevor nodded, still staring sightlessly through the windshield. “Holy  _ shit.” _

“Those are the Fakes, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Lemme tell you, man, after seeing them in action, I can understand why they’re legends.” Alfredo watched a drop of water creep down the windshield. “…I think the British one was hitting on me.”

“Yeah, I think he was hitting on me too.” Trevor finally turned and met Alfredo’s eyes. “…They really didn’t hurt you?”

“No. They kept giving their guns handjobs, but they didn’t hurt me.” 

“And did they really rescue you from Ron?”

“Yeah.” Alfredo was quiet for a moment. “…Ron said something weird, just before I told him to fuck off.”

“Weirder than usual?”

“He said the Fakes didn’t know what bathrooms to use.”

The slowly creeping drop of water finally touched a second drop, draining into it until one swollen drop remained. Trevor’s jaw was so clenched that it ached.

“Was it a jab at you?” He forced the words out tensely. “Does he know?”

Alfredo snorted. “No way he’d work with me if he knew. I think… I think he’s talking about the Fakes.” He was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. “I don’t know if they’re like me, but if they’ve pissed off Ron, then they’ve at least gotta be… Look, Trev, I’m not gonna lie, it makes me trust them more.”

“ _ Trust  _ them?” Trevor shot Alfredo a stunned look. “Oh my god, you’re considering teaming up with them, aren’t you?”

“The Sauce works alone, you know that.”

Trevor cocked his eyebrow so high it almost took flight. Alfredo let out a heavy huff.

“Almost alone,” he muttered.

“Mmm-hm.” Trevor was still giving him a look. “You told me that, once. That you worked alone.”

“Yeah, and look how that played out. Now I can’t peel you off me.” Alfredo took a deep breath and turned to face his partner. “Okay, listen, here’s a stupid idea -- What if we teamed up with the Fakes and took out Ron Gold?”

——

If a rich man didn’t own an estate in the rugged wilderness of San Andreas, could he even call himself a rich man?

Ron Gold stared out his window at the sprawling gardens below, a glass of scotch in hand. The scrubland and semi-desert of the region couldn’t support a tenth of the flora his estate boasted, but technology and plumbing had terraformed the land into a lustrous eden. Dominion over the elements was just one of many privileges afforded the rich and powerful.

Ron Gold had not always been rich and powerful. He had no interest in returning to any other state.

The door creaked. Ron Gold swirled his glass of scotch, but didn’t turn around when he spoke.

“Is the problem dealt with?”

“The… the Sauce escaped, sir.”

Ron Gold stopped swirling his drink. “…Did he, now?”

“Sir—“

“He  _ is  _ the best, of course. I wouldn’t have hired anything less to take out the Fakes. But I thought surely if it was twenty of you against one of him—“

“He had help.” The speaker shoved his words into the conversation like a foot shoved into a closing door. “The Fakes. They covered his escape.” 

“…The Fakes? Hmm.” As though content that the gears of the world could keep turning, Ron Gold resumed swirling his scotch. “Perhaps our untrustworthy assassin will fill his contract after all.” 

“…Sir?”

“Send in my secretary. And thank you for this  _ wonderful  _ news.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Consensual non-sexual blindfolding, non-serious threats of violence that are correctly identified as a joke by the recipient, doxxing threat, one actual threat of violence, references to stalking from previous chapters, brief discussion of violation of autonomy (not in the form of a threat), some kidnapping flavor in a scene that is ultimately consensual.

“Trusting the Fakes was a  _ great  _ idea,” Trevor grunted from somewhere to Alfredo’s left.

It was a clear and beautiful day at the Fakes’ country hideout, not that Alfredo could tell through his blindfold. He cursed as he stumbled over a shallow step. His only guidance was Rimmy Tim’s firm, gloved hand on his shoulder.

“It’s so nice to see that trust  _ returned _ ,” Trevor continued, louder.

“Hey, come on, we trust you guys.” Rimmy Tim tugged on Alfredo’s arm, redirecting his steps. “You think we’d be taking you to HQ if we didn’t?”

“I thought this James Bond country club  _ was  _ headquarters,” Alfredo grunted.

“Pssh. The vineyard is just a quiet getaway and a smokescreen. It’s a place for people to picture when they’re writing fanfic about us. The  _ real  _ base of operations is in the city itself.”

Alfredo cussed again as he was yanked to a halt. “So since we’re all trusting each other so much, maybe you can take the blindfolds off?”

“Now that just wouldn’t be proper.” The low drawl of the Vagabond made Alfredo’s spine prickle. “You’re getting a  _ traditional  _ Fake AH Crew welcome. Besides, the blindfolds look great on you.”

Rimmy Tim huffed. “Vagabond, what did I say about being a creep?”

“That it comes naturally to me?”

“That’s true, and despite how romantic that memory that is, I’m referring to this morning when I told you to knock it off around our guests.”

“You ruin all my fun, babe.”

"Hold that thought, I love doing this part.” Rimmy Tim’s grip on Alfredo’s arm tightened and his voice slipped into a snarl. “Get in the car!” 

Alfredo sighed and groped around for the door. “Is it too late to call shotgun?”

“That doesn’t mean the same thing when you ride with the Fakes.”

“In that case, I don’t call shotgun.” 

“Wise choice.”

Through a lot of fumbling and a few helpful nudges from Rimmy Tim, Alfredo managed to climb into the car. The leather seat seemed perfectly shaped for him, well used but well maintained. He could hear the other passenger door opening across from him.

“J-jeez, don’t shove! I’m gonna spill my coffee!”

Annoyance put an edge on the Vagabond’s voice. “Not sure why you brought coffee to this consensual kidnapping.”

“This is my emotional support bean juice and I want it with me!”

“High strung, aren’t you?”

Trevor’s voice was rising in pitch. “I’m wearing a blindfold and getting shoved into a car by a criminal!”

“Yeah, but we talked about it first.”

The leather seats creaked as Trevor sat down next to Alfredo. The door slammed shut. Alfredo sighed and leaned back against the cushy leather seat, stretching his arms.

“Just another day on the job, Trey,” he reminisced. 

Trevor sighed. “Just another day on the job.”

The front doors opened, followed by the second half of an argument and the shuffle of two bodies slipping onto leather seats.

“But this is  _ my  _ car!”

“Yeah, and you’re no Wheels. I’m driving.” Rimmy Tim chuckled as he revved the engine. “Buckle up, boys, we’re going heisting!”

“No peeking,” the Vagabond added with distressing cheer. “Or I’ll slit your throats.” 

Trevor’s grunt of affirmation had the liquid muffle of someone caught mid-sip.

“No spilling coffee in my car, or I’ll slit your throats.”

Alfredo slung his arm over the back of the seat as the car began to move. “That’s just your answer to everything, isn’t it?” 

\----

The drive was long and weird. Alfredo’s fingers tapped at the leather seats while Trevor sipped coffee next to him. Although the two of them were blindfolded, their hands were unbound. They’d been allowed to bring weapons. Regardless of what Trevor had said, there was a weird sense of trust hovering in the car. 

Alfredo could have peeked. He didn’t. Trust was sometimes dangerous, but broken trust was _always_ dangerous.

Eventually, the car slowed to a stop and the engine stopped humming. When the door opened, the air that wafted inside was musty, earthy, and a little acrid with gasoline and engine oil: a garage. Alfredo stepped out of the car, guided by a now-familiar hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t spill coffee on me,” the Vagabond warned from the other side of the car.

Trevor sighed. “Yeah, yeah, or you’ll slit my throat.”

“Rimmy, I don’t think he believes me.”

Rimmy Tim laughed as he guided Alfredo over a smooth concrete floor. “That’s cause you’re bluffing. Poorly.”

“... I could mean it if I wanted to.”

“We know, babe. You’re very scary. Watch out, Sauce, there’s a small step in front of you.”

In the darkness of the blindfold, Alfredo was guided out of the garage and into a warmer, less-musty space. Then they stepped into something that Alfredo was pretty sure was an elevator. He listened to the hum of passing floors -- several of them. Alfredo tapped his foot on the wood floor. With a ding and a mechanical slide, he was ushered forward again.

Finally, a door creaked open and Alfredo could hear voices and laughter on the other side.

“Ha, there they are! Our esteemed guests!”

“Welcome to HQ, boys!”

“You ready for a heist with the Fakes?”

Alfredo grunted uncomfortably. “If this blindfold comes off and I’m in a sex dungeon, I’m gonna start shooting.”

Rimmy Tim chuckled. A gentle pressure of fingers tugged at the knot that bound Alfredo’s blindfold, loosening it. “Nah, this room is a lot more fun than that.” 

The blindfold fell away. Alfredo blinked at the sight.

The small room was bizarrely mundane. One wall was covered by a whiteboard scattered with cryptic notes in a dozen different colors that might not even make sense to their original author. Another wall boasted a sprawling map of Los Santos, dotted with colored pushpins and pockmarked with holes from previous use. In one corner was a printer, in another a desktop computer. Between it all was a stainless steel table and a scattering of office chairs. The colorful, well-armed occupants of those chairs looked like they belonged in a different dimension.

Alfredo squinted. “Am I in the Fakes’ headquarters, or an employee rec room at Staples?”

Rimmy Tim gave him a shove that seemed almost friendly, then wandered off to find his own seat.

Trevor was rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Ugh. Would it kill you to get some gentle lighting in here?”

“Nothing kills us,” Mogar bragged, lounging in a plastic office chair like it was a recliner.

“Then there’s no excuse for this god-awful lighting.”

“I keep  _ telling  _ them that!” Wheels insisted.

Rimmy Tim slipped off his white cowboy hat, hanging it on the back of a chair before flopping into it. “Whatever,  _ I  _ thought this room was awesome the first time I saw it.”

With one more distrustful squint at the lights, Trevor wandered to the table and set his coffee down. “Before we do this, I need a question answered.”

“Go ahead,” the Kingpin urged.

“Why are you helping us? What do you want after it’s done?”

Mogar shrugged. “We want Smegging Ron dead. After the mission, he will be.”

“You can drop the games.” Trevor leaned on the table. “If you wanted him dead, you could have killed him yourself.”

“Without inside info, we’d all die.”

“So what? You can just try again.”

The Vagabond’s expression darkened. “That’s not a price we were willing to pay.”

"Yeah?" Trevor looked at him dryly. “What’s the price for a couple of immortals?”

“You’ve never died before, so I’ll spare you the answer to that question.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes. He relented with a huff. “Okay, so why work with us after we tried to kill you?”

“And succeeded!” Rimmy Tim added with a laugh.

The Kingpin gestured at Alfredo. “You’re the best assassin in the country.” He looked at Trevor. “You’re an inside man at the LSPD. If we’ve got the choice to make allies or enemies out of you, we’d rather be allies. And from everything we’ve seen so far, you’re not the kind of person we refuse to associate with.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

“You killed me clean.” Rimmy Tim said the words too calmly. “You killed Golden Boy clean. I’ve seen a lot of violence, and I don’t think you do it for a sense of control over someone else.” 

Wheels gave them a warm smile and spread her arms in a gesture to the assembled Fakes. “Besides… so you killed us a few times, so what? No harm done.”

Mogar snorted impatiently, leaning back in his seat. He lifted his legs and rested his boots on the back of Rimmy Tim’s chair. “Are we gonna smoke Smegging Ron together or not? The door’s right the fuck there if you’re not interested.” 

Alfredo shot Trevor a look. He was still glaring at the Kingpin mistrustfully. Alfredo sighed heavily and placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder.

“Look, we wouldn’t be here if we weren’t down. So what’s the plan?”

The Kingpin pointed to the map of Los Santos. “As we all know, this is the bastard’s base of operations.”

Alfredo winced. “You’re not gonna hit him there, are you? The place is practically a military base.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Sauce. Got any suggestions?”

“What info have you got on his country retreat?”

Golden Boy whipped out a phone and tapped at it rapidly. “Give me just a second.”

The printer in the corner of the room hummed. A moment later, it spat out a sheet of paper. The Kingpin picked it up and set it down on the table.

It was an aerial view of a lavish mansion.

“Got that pic from one of our drones,” Golden Boy bragged. “Would’ve liked to get closer, but the auto turrets had already shot me down twice and I didn’t wanna lose another drone.”

Wheels winced. “He’s got  _ auto turrets  _ and this is the easy place to hit?”

“Relax,” Trevor drawled, “he leans into his auto security way too much. He’s downsized the number of real human guards he keeps. If you can disable his automated defenses, then a couple of pros like you shouldn’t have a problem with the rest.” 

Alfredo pointed at the map. “See this balcony? This is where he does his one-on-one business meetings. If Ron wants to wave his dick around, he’ll invite someone up here. As far as I can tell, it’s the only damn room he uses in the place.”

The Kingpin nodded. “So that’s where we find him. We just need to be sure he’s at his retreat when we strike.” 

“I can help with that,” Trevor cut in. “LSPD keeps tabs on him. The man’s not subtle. Next time I’m at the station, I’ll see what his movements are expected to be.”

“Can you do that from your phone?”

“Sure, if we’re all cool with the LSPD having a record of me accessing their database from inside the Fakes’ headquarters.”

Golden Boy held out his hand. “Toss me your phone, I’ll make it look like you’re using it from your home address.”

Trevor pulled back gingerly. “…Why do you know where I  _ live _ ?”

“ _ Welllll,  _ y’know, you  _ did  _ threaten us several times and you were trying to kill us for real. Burned m’damn body and all. Just wanted to keep an eye on you in case you found a way to really hurt us.” He smiled brightly. “And look how helpful you turned out to be!”

Trevor heaved a sigh and pulled his phone out. “Don’t go digging through it.”

Golden Boy smirked as he caught the tossed phone. “What, you got nudes on there?”

“If only,” Alfredo chimed in.

Trevor shoved a warning finger in Alfredo’s face, his cheeks pink. Alfredo snickered at it. After a few moments, Golden Boy tossed the phone back. Trevor was still flushed as he caught it.

“Sorry for flirting with your sweetheart so much, Saucy.” Golden Boy leaned back in his chair, eyes on Alfredo as Trevor typed. “I would’ve hit on you a lot sooner if you hadn’t shot me in the head and burned my body before I could say cheers. I try not to leave people out.” 

“Looks like he’ll be at the country estate for two more days,” Trevor interrupted, shooting Golden Boy a harsh look. “Then he’s headed back to his hub and might not leave again for a while.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “If you want to take him out, it’s either gotta be soon or it’s gotta be… eventually.” 

“Soon it is.” The Kingpin pointed at the aerial view of the mansion. “Let’s talk teams. Golden Boy, I want as much security as possible disabled remotely, but you might be able to do more damage from the inside. I’m gonna need some muscle partnered with you in case you hit trouble.”

Mogar raised his arm with a chuckle. “That’s my cue.” 

“Then the two of you target his automated security.” The Kingpin turned his gaze to Alfredo. “Sauce, normally I’d have a sniper like you providing long-range cover, but I’m gonna guess you wanna take out the big man yourself.”

Alfredo shrugged innocently. “I’m a man of many skills, Kingpin. I can snipe, I can fight up close, I can make a lover feel like the center of the world. But I’m no good at letting assholes live.”

The Kingpin smiled. “I like you more and more. All right, Sauce, you’re the primary strike team.” He looked over his crew thoughtfully. “Rimmy Tim, you’re with the Sauce. You’ve got one job, got it?”

Rimmy Tim nodded. “Understood.”

“The two of you find Ron and take him out. The rest of us are just helping you with that. Vagabond, you’re with me. We won’t go loud unless we have to, but if there’s gotta be a diversion, that’s us.” 

The Vagabond gave him a small nod.

“Wheels, you’re our getaway, but you’re also our wild card. At some point in this process, the shit is going to — as the kids say — hit the fan. I’m gonna need you to use your judgement about what’ll give us the best chance of a clean pull-out.”

Wheels snickered, then cleared her throat and nodded seriously.

“Then that’s everyone, except…” The Kingpin’s gaze wandered the room and finally settled on Trevor. “You wanna get in on this, cop?”

Trevor seemed stunned to be noticed. He glanced at Alfredo, then back at the Kingpin. “Wh— yes, I mean—“ Trevor cleared his throat. “What do you want me to do?”

“Well, why don’t you tell me?” The Kingpin gestured at the map. “You know the job as well as anyone in this room. What can your skills offer?”

For a moment, Trevor didn’t respond. The answer was on his long sigh even before he spoke. “Nothing.” He stared at the map as though that could change things. “Me and the Sauce have an arrangement. He’s the assassin, I’m the cop, and we don’t compromise our jobs. If the cops were involved in this, then I could do something for you as a mole, but they’re not.” 

For a moment, the Kingpin was quiet. Finally, he reached into his pocket.

“Let me give you an option.”

Trevor’s gaze jumped to him as though for salvation. “Oh?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You might not thank me for this.” The Kingpin pulled out a small, electric green earpiece. “If you like, you can stay in HQ and listen in while we heist. You’ll have the maps and internet access, you might provide some insight. And more to the point, you won’t have to sit alone and wonder what’s happening.” He lifted the com between two fingers. “It’s up to you whether knowing is better than not knowing.” 

Alfredo knew which one Trevor was going to choose even before Trevor stuck his hand out. “I’d rather know.”

The Kingpin didn’t place the com in Trevor's outstretched hand. “This com does not leave HQ. Understood?”

“Understood.” 

“This is a favor, and not one I’m offering lightly. If this com disappears, we’ll scramble the signature so it’s worthless. Then we’ll find you.”

Trevor's face went slightly paler. “A-also understood.”

The Kingpin pressed the com into Trevor’s hand. His voice seemed to soften, which was odd when it had never really hardened to begin with. “If you need to leave HQ, just walk out the same way you came in. It’ll lock up behind you.”

With a frown, Trevor took the com. “I was blindfolded on the way in.”

“…Oh. Right.” The Kingpin cleared his throat. “Well, uh, there’s an exit on the main floor. Just wander around until you find your way out. Don’t touch anything.” He turned his gaze back to Alfredo as though to change the subject. “Sauce, hopefully you'll be the one to put a bullet in Smegging Ron, but I don’t want anyone passing up a clean shot if they get one. That work for you?”

Alfredo sighed. “Gotta make sacrifices in times of war, right?”

“Good. All teams: if you’ve finished your job and you haven’t found a new one, then you’re on strike team. Converge on the balcony, take out Ron.” He traced his finger over the map. “If you lose your partner, get as close to the balcony as you can and wait for reinforcements. Join up with whichever team you find.”

The words “ _ if you lose your partner”  _ made Alfredo’s stomach lurch. His gaze fled to Trevor for safety. There Trevor stood, alive, safe, brow furrowed endearingly in concentration. He would be safe in HQ for this mission; Alfredo was at no risk of seeing his partner die.

But the rest of the Fakes were. 

“You’ve got a look on your face, Vagabond.”

The Kingpin’s voice pulled Alfredo back to the present. The Vagabond’s face was stone, his eyes locked on the Kingpin as he spoke.

“We’ve never heisted with someone like him before.” 

Alfredo’s eyes narrowed. “Never heisted with a professional, huh? It shows.”

With a sigh, Rimmy Tim rolled his head back on the chair. “He knows we respawn, babe. You don’t have to speak in code.”

“Someone like you, yeah.” This time, the Vagabond met Alfredo’s stare. “We’ve never heisted with someone who can die.” 

“You got a problem with that, you immortal dick?”

“Yeah.” The Vagabond’s voice was taking on an edge, growing louder. “I’ve got a problem with knowing that  _ half a second  _ of fucking up means we lose one of our team.”

Alfredo’s jaw tensed. “You think I can’t handle myself in a firefight? I guess  _ someone like you  _ probably gets shot all the time, huh?” He lowered his voice to a taunting whisper. “No one’s killed me yet. Who’s got the better record, you or me?” 

The Vagabond gripped the edge of his chair as though preparing to stand, but a sharp look from the Kingpin froze him in place. He settled back in his seat with his jaw tense.

“Forgive my crew.” The Kingpin’s voice was firm. “Fearing for someone’s life is an emotion they’ve forgotten, and you’re reminding them. It’s all very new and scary.” He glared at the crew, one by one. “But they’ll get over it. Won’t they?”

“Yes sir,” Mogar responded promptly. He reached over and smacked the Vagabond’s arm, eliciting a grumbled “ _ yes sir”  _ from him as well. Alfredo watched them both. If the Vagabond disagreed with the Kingpin’s words, he didn’t voice it.

“Fearing for my life, huh?” Alfredo took some of the edge out of his voice. “I’m all warm and fuzzy.” 

With a glowing smile, Rimmy Tim ruffled the Vagabond’s hair. “He’s a softie.” 

The Vagabond didn’t uncross his arms or stop glaring, but he didn’t push Rimmy Tim’s hand off either. “Don’t take it too personally, hit man. We owe you. We got you into this shit. I’m just making sure we get you back out.” 

“Why Vagabond, you’re making me blush.”

The Kingpin cleared his throat loudly. “All right, if anyone’s got any other questions, comments, or baseless aggression, time to get it out now. We’re heisting as soon as this meeting is over.”

A conclusive silence followed his words. The Kingpin nodded. 

“Go gear up, team. Take the Sauce with you, let him have whatever he wants from the armory. I’ll show our favorite fake-cop around the heist room.”

There was a chorus of creaking chairs as the crew all stood. Alfredo’s gaze slid back to Trevor in time to meet his eyes. With a little effort, Alfredo constructed a very convincing charming smile.

“You’re not gonna let your brave hero run off without a kiss, right?”

Trevor closed the gap between them. In a flurry of flustered movement, Alfredo pressed a hand against Trevor’s chest before their lips could meet.

“W-wait, really?”

“...Were you just joking about the kiss?”

“No, I definitely want a kiss, but --  _ really _ , Mr. No PDA?”

Trevor cupped Alfredo’s face, staring into his eyes like he was trying to get lost in them. “I don’t see anyone in this room but you.” 

Every second of every day, there was a small part of Alfredo that was making an active effort to not kiss Trevor. It always felt good to turn that part of his mind off. He slipped his hand around the back of Trevor’s neck and pulled him into a slow, deep kiss.

Alfredo wasn’t paying enough attention to see it, but the Fakes all idly turned their attention to one another, as though their two guests had simply vanished from the room.

When the kiss faded, Alfredo lingered close, still cupping Trevor’s face.

“Don’t.” Trevor’s words were a soft warning that lingered in the warm space between their lips. “Don’t start.”

Alfredo smiled. “Just wanted a little luck, babe, that’s all.” 

“You don’t need luck, you’ve got something better.” Trevor took a long breath, pressing his hand over Alfredo’s. “Go kick ass, okay?”

“You know I will.” 

With the sort of resolved tension normally seen on someone about to yank off a bandaid, Trevor pulled himself away from Alfredo and turned towards the Kingpin. “I’m ready. What do you want to show me?”

“Well, if you’ll come over here, I’ll show you how to log into the crappy old desktop…”

As Trevor walked off, Alfredo pulled his gaze away. The Fakes were chatting quietly and filing out the door. Alfredo stepped close to Rimmy Tim before he could leave the room.

“Hey. Rimmy.”

Rimmy Tim looked up curiously. Alfredo kept his voice a low murmur as he stepped closer, keeping the words private.

“What was Vagabond talking about, before we talked strategy?” 

“When he said what?”

“Something about not being willing to pay the price. Fakes can’t die. Why did he look scared?”

A dark look passed over Rimmy Tim’s face, the same one that the Vagabond had worn. “The Fakes are immune to death.  _ Only _ death.” He picked up his white cowboy hat, slipping it on. “Not pain. And not… Well, a lot of things happen when you lose a fight.”

Without elaborating further, Rimmy Tim followed the rest of the Fakes out the door. Alfredo frowned as he trailed after them.

——

Trevor sipped his coffee. It had gone cold, but he needed a familiar comfort right now, even if that familiar comfort tasted like over-brewed jet fuel. He was standing in the mission center of the Fake AH Crew — arguably the most dangerous room in the entire city — watching the man known as the Kingpin explain the login for the computer in the corner.

“Let me make sure I heard that right,” Trevor grunted, lowering his coffee. “The password is  _ dicks _ ?”

“Yep, plural, all lowercase.”

“That seems a little… low security.”

The Kingpin laughed and rapped his knuckles against the monitor. “What’s gonna happen, is someone gonna break into HQ, find this room, and crack the code? There’s not even anything good on this computer.”

“Why have a password then?”

The Kingpin snickered. “Because I like the word ‘dicks.’”

Eyebrows pursed skeptically, Trevor took another sip of coffee. His gaze wandered to the stainless steel table where he’d set the com. The coffee couldn’t quiet his nerves. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for being given the choice to helplessly listen.

“Well, that’s everything.” The Kingpin turned towards the door. “If you’ve got any other questions, you can ask over the com.”

Trevor grabbed the Kingpin’s arm before he could leave. “One more thing.”

The Kingpin turned around with all the coiled curiosity of a predator who’s just spotted a new and confusing type of prey.

“I want you to know something.” Trevor didn’t flinch as he murmured the words. “If you let him die on this heist, I will describe all of your faces to every sketch artist in Los Santos. And it won’t matter how much you torture me in return.”

Danger drained out of the Kingpin’s expression as he smiled. “Still ballsy. I always liked that about you, cookie boy.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know you are.” The Kingpin placed a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “I swear to you, I will do all in my power to keep him safe. I’m not exaggerating when I say the crew would take a bullet for him.”

“That’s… a lot of effort to protect a hired gun,” Trevor said stiffly.

“It’s the right amount of effort. We can  _ afford _ to die for him, and we will.”

The certainty of Kingpin’s words stilled Trevor’s tongue. He wondered, for the first time, if the Kingpin was  _ expecting  _ some of his crew to die.

The door creaked. Trevor looked up as Wheels slipped back into the room.

“Crew’s ready,” she announced as she approached. She met Trevor’s eye and held out her hand. “I never got to say hello properly. I’m Wheels.”

Trevor took her hand. “Charmed.”

“It’s good to have you on board, Trevor Collins!”

“U-uh—“ Trevor’s hand twitched in hers. “That’s funny, I never told you my last name.”

“Oh, I know it cause of the stalking.” 

“Cause I threatened you and all?”

“Yep. But now that you’re friendly, no need to stalk you!”

Trevor shot the Kingpin a brief, guilty look. “U-uh, yeah. Guess I don’t need to threaten you anymore.”

As Wheels let go of his hand, her gaze was suddenly caught on Trevor's cup of coffee. She wrinkled her nose. “What is  _ that _ ?”

“Uh…” Trevor looked at his drink. Until that moment, he’d been completely certain it was coffee. “…Coffee?”

“Where’s it from?”

“Dunno, some gas station.”

Wheels shook her head and turned back towards the door. “After the heist, remind me to show you where to get a decent cup in Los Santos. Not even a cop should have to suffer like that.” 

She slipped out of the room. The Kingpin watched her go, then shot Trevor a look.

“That’s my wife,” he bragged.

The words bounced harmlessly off Trevor’s ears a few times before he registered their meaning. He stared blankly at the Kingpin’s proud smile. It was hard to imagine the tattooed mastermind Kingpin and the uncatchable speed demon Wheels participating in something as gentle as marriage.

“I-I didn’t know you were married,” Trevor said at last. 

“Heh. Til death do us part, anyway.” The Kingpin snickered as though sharing a joke with himself. “The marriage gets voided often. We have a lot of weddings.”

“I… I can’t imagine what the Fakes are like at a wedding.”

“Oh, they’re a rowdy bunch.” The Kingpin gave Trevor a loose salute. “See you on the other side of the heist, Trevor.”

Trevor slipped the hot green com into his ear. It slid into place like it was meant to be there. “See you on the other side, Kingpin.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic gun violence, reckless murder of NPCs, brief harm to animals mentioned, misogynistic language, hyperbole involving genital mutilation, guilt, brief transphobic language.

Filthy Oswald had a feeling he was moving up in the world.

Under a sliver of moonlight, he stood on the stone wall of Ron Gold’s estate and puffed on his cigar. The cherry-red glow from its burning tip was the only illumination up here on the wall. It wouldn’t be out of line to describe the structure beneath him as “ramparts”. Ron Gold’s estate was laid out like a lordly castle of old, complete with an imposing wall. The look was somewhat modernized by fearsome automated turrets, perched at even intervals like vultures, ever-scanning. The wall stood as a chiseled stone barrier between the arid scrubland outside and the verdant paradise within. Separating the worthy from the unworthy. 

Filthy Oswald took note of which side of the wall he was on. 

The night was peaceful. Oswald had sent his guards out of sight, but not out of earshot. They stood a respectful distance away, unseen and armed to the teeth. Such a fortified personal guard would not normally stroll into a fellow criminal’s personal estate so openly, but they had the blessing of Mr. Gold himself. Tonight, his guests had been invited to bring whatever personal army they wished, and Oswald was not the only high caliber criminal visiting on this fine evening. Ron Gold was a savvy man. With this much firepower packed together in one expensive mansion, no one wanted to be the first to pull the trigger. An armed society was a polite society, so a society armed with rocket launchers must be positively aristocratic.

Expensive smog clouded Oswald, billowing out between his lips. The glowing ember on the tip of the cigar flickered.

Ron Gold wasn’t the type to invite guests for frivolous parties, and in any case, frivolous parties rarely included armed guards on the invite list. The man wanted to talk business, that much was clear. Either Ron was looking for a partner to share in profit and plunder, or he was in deep shit and trying to pull a scheme out of his ass. Both were opportunities that a clever man might use to shoot upwards like a meteor in the world of Los Santos crime.

Oswald had a feeling he could be just that man.

A strange movement tugged Oswald’s vision. He squinted. The landscape was dressed in gloom of night, sun-baked dirt and boulders shedding heat in the darkness, but he could have sworn he saw something move. Resting his arms on the stone wall, he peered into the night and chewed his cigar. A rabbit, maybe? Perhaps he should call one of his guards over, see how good their aim was.

A ruby-red spark glinted in the darkness, like a crimson firefly. Oswald frowned as he leaned further over the edge, trying to get a better look. 

He never heard the click.

Filthy Oswald had been correct about his meteoric trajectory. He’d only been wrong about the direction.

\----

The outer range of Ron Gold’s turrets was marked by carrion. His automated guns with their night-vision scanners were designed to sense movement, but they didn’t much care if it was human or not. In a sparse ring around the estate, wildlife rotted. The vultures had learned not to pick at those corpses.

In a rare twist of events, a corpse lay inside the ring, at the very foot of Ron Gold’s wall. 

Alfredo stared at the body with his brow furrowed. Rimmy Tim was at his side, a heavy black bag slung over his shoulder. It was a little hard to tell in the darkness, but the dead man at their feet seemed to be wearing a fur-trimmed suit. A still-smoldering cigar was gripped in the rictus of his dead teeth.

“Who the fuck is that?” Alfredo squinted. “That’s no security guard.”

Rimmy Tim hummed. “You know what would be great? If that was the Smegger himself you just shot. We could go home and celebrate.” 

“That would be a real speed-run.”

“...I don’t suppose that’s him?”

“Do you see me smiling?” 

“Well, you’re wearing a bandana over your face, so --”

The sound of footsteps on the wall above silenced them both. Rimmy Tim put his boot on the smoldering cigar, snuffing out the last ember. 

“Sir?” The voice from above was muffled. A moment later, a helmeted head appeared over the stone crenelations, along with a firmly-gripped rifle. “Mr. Filthy, sir, is everything —“

Alfredo fired one silenced shot. The guard slumped over the edge of the wall and thumped onto the dusty ground next to the first dead man.

“The fuck did he just call me?” Rimmy Tim huffed.

“Filthy.” Alfredo laid his boot against that fur-trimmed suit, rolling the man over. He tapped his com. “Trey, what was the name of that Filthy guy that the cops have been keeping an eye on?”

_ “Filthy Oswald, arms dealer who operates out of Los Santos.”  _ Trevor’s voice was crisp. _ “What’s he doing at Ron’s estate?” _

“Having a smoke, looks like.” Alfredo frowned at the body. “I don’t think this fancy fuck is the cat burglar type. Must have been a guest.”

_ “Something’s wrong. You need to get out of there.” _

Rimmy Tim sighed through his mask. “Negative. He’s already dead, we can roll with this.”

_ “Listen, I’ve misappropriated more than a few law enforcement resources for my personal research into Ron Gold, and I know who his business partners are. Filthy Oswald isn’t one of them. His presence here is suspicious as hell and so is the timing.” _

The Kingpin’s voice joined Trevor’s.  _ “Then we’ll stay on our toes. We’re not pulling out just yet.” _

_ “You know I love to hear that, boss.” _

_ “Mogar, at least pretend you’re behaving yourself around the guests.” _

_ “What? I like crime. What did you think I was talking about?”  _

With a chuckle, Rimmy Tim set down his bag and fished out a grappling hook. “Come on, Sauce. Let’s do a little rock climbing.” 

The courtyard beyond the wall was an aromatic jungle. Misty floral aromas enveloped Alfredo as he dropped down the last few feet. Decorative trees and deep flower beds — blooms all closed for the night — were interspersed with towering, leafy, tropical wonders that should never have survived in the San Andreas scrubland. Carefully manicured stretches of grass sprawled between the clusters of foliage. Tidy stone pathways wound through it all. In the night, it was a peaceful vision. 

Strangely, it was quieter than the scrubland. The local insects and birds — unhindered by turrets — favored the dry landscape over the terraformed paradise.

“Ugh.” Rimmy Tim looked around. “Sure, it’s pretty now, but think of the water bill.” 

_ “This is Vagabond, me and the Kingpin have breached the south wall. All quiet so far. What’s everyone’s status?” _

Alfredo twitched at the sound of an electronic voice in his ear. He couldn’t get used to the vague sense that the entire Fake AH Crew was hovering a few inches off his neck.

“Rimmy and the Sauce are in,” Rimmy Tim replied smoothly, as though robot voices in his ear were just a normal part of his day.

_ “This is Wheels, I’m laying low for now.” _

_ “Good call.” _

_ “Mogar and Goldie are inside the wall.”  _

Trevor huffed.  _ “Why don’t I get a cool codename?” _

_ “You gotta come up with one, cookie boy. All right, team, let’s move. Keep it quiet.” _

Rimmy Tim inclined his head towards the estate. “Lead the way, Sauce. You’re the one who’s been here before. I’m gonna guess we’re not taking the front door?”

Alfredo scanned the dark garden. The last time he’d been here, the hot San Andreas sun had painted it in vivid colors. The landscaping looked a little different under the gloom of night, but he knew where he was going. He’d recorded a detailed mental map of Ron Gold’s estate the first time he was invited inside. 

It was funny; he always assumed he’d need to break  _ out _ of it, not in.

“Hope you brought your swim trunks, Bigfoot.” Alfredo shouldered his gun. “Cause we’re headed for the pool.” 

“Mmm. Refreshing.” 

Ron Gold’s mansion was of modern construction, all clean brickwork and endless windows, too disgustingly large to be anything other than a status symbol. And yet, something about it seemed carved from stone, domineering as a castle. It towered over the lush gardens. Outdoor architecture sprawled from the base like roots, pillared courtyards and gazebos, structures that could have been full houses in their own right. Everywhere, brick and foliage alike were lit in warm splashes of lamp light, but there were enough murky shadows to hide a pair of brightly colored intruders. 

The pool was rimmed by a much smaller stone wall. Alfredo knew where the gate was. Ron Gold had given him a tour, though hadn’t offered to let him go for a swim. A world-class assassin was worth bragging to, but not worth sullying one’s pool water.

Alfredo slowed his approach, slipping behind a hedge. Through the strange play of lamplight and garden shadow, he could see a pair of guards by the gate to the pool. That was weird; Ron didn’t post guards by his pool.

Rimmy Tim sighed. “Well that’s trouble.”

“What, just two of them?” Alfredo tapped his rifle. “I can drop ‘em before anyone hears.” 

“Nah, save your bullets. There’s another way.” Rimmy Tim touched his com. “Kingpin? Time for a diversion.” 

_ “Heh, can do. You ready to go loud, Vagabond?” _

_ “Always. I bet we can get his entire security team to dogpile us at once.” _

A gunshot split the night like an axe. Both guards jolted at the sound, rifles pointed at the darkness, scanning wildly for a target that wasn’t there. Alfredo kept his hands on his rifle as he watched them from the shadows.

“The fuck was that?” one of them hissed.

The other one grunted. “Looks like Ron’s in deep shit.”

“Well, we’re in his fucking estate, so his shit is now our shit. Come on, let’s go deal with it.”

“Not our problem unless it comes closer. Unless you wanna explain to the Ripper why we left our posts. She’d cut our nuts off.”

“...Not like you’ve got any.”

“You wanna say that to my dick, princess?”

“Sure, I’ll ask the Ripper for a peek next time we report in. She’s got it in a box somewhere, right?”

“...Like you’ve got the guts to look her in the eye.” 

Rimmy Tim’s sigh didn’t sound surprised. “Shit. These aren’t Ron’s men either.” 

Alfredo lifted his silenced rifle, staring down the sights. “Guess we gotta be old fashioned about this.” 

The first shot was calculus. Alfredo let his crosshairs drift just under the man’s ear: an excellent home for a bullet, carrying the victim to death quickly and quietly. When he was ready, he let out a breath and squeezed the trigger. There was no calculus in the second shot, only instinct. The target called to Alfredo and he graced it with a lead kiss.

He always liked second shots.

Two bodies thumped against the fancy stone path. Rimmy Tim chuckled and stepped out of the bushes. 

“Nice. I like working with you, Sauce.”

Alfredo reloaded his gun. “Enjoy the free sample while it lasts, Bigfoot. Normally I charge a yacht payment for this much killin’.”

“No problem, I’ve got a yacht.” 

A harsh crunch of boots on gravel silenced both men. Before they could slip back into the shadows, a third guard pushed the gate open.

“Hey assholes, pick up your damn coms! Ripper’s calling everyone back for--”

Alfredo put a bullet between the man’s eyes before they had time to widen in surprise.

“Damn!” With a chuckle, Rimmy Tim tapped the scope on Alfredo’s rifle. “This is just to make the gun look pretty, huh?”

Alfredo lowered his rifle. “Hey, gotta look the part.” He cast an uneasy glance at the dead guards. “Somethin’ feels off, Rimmy. Who are all these randos?” 

If Rimmy Tim had a response, it was cut off by a harsh curse over the coms, loud enough that Alfredo could hear it echoing across the compound as well.

_ “What the fuck happened to all his security being automated?”  _ the Kingpin bellowed. _ “We just got jumped by twenty guards armed like marines!”  _

_ “This isn’t right!”  _ Trevor’s voice was getting sharper.  _ “None of Ron’s troops have been moved out of his main base recently, there shouldn’t be this much firepower here!” _

_ “I don’t think these guys are Ron’s security, some sort of personal guard for a guest.”  _ The sound of a reloading gun snapped in the background.  _ “Bad day for a house visit.” _

Trevor made a frustrated noise.  _ “Ron Gold doesn’t casually invite guests over! He must have beefed up his own security with some weird ‘bring your own military’ party!”  _

Rimmy Tim shot Alfredo a sharp look through his mask before turning his sights back to the moonlit garden walls. “Kingpin, are we scrubbing the mission? I can still extract safely.”

The Kingpin snarled in frustration over the sound of gunfire.  _ “Golden Boy, you’ve gotten into his security system, what’s your read?” _

_ “Well, we laid our damn cards on the table!”  _ Golden Boy sounded frantic.  _ “I’ve already scrambled his auto turrets and you’re popping off, he knows we’re here! If we pull out now, it won’t be safe to use the same plan a second time, he’ll be ready for it!” _

_ “That’s a negative on pulling out. Fakes, do what you do best and improvise!” _

Rimmy Tim whispered a tired cuss word like it was a prayer. Almost reluctantly, he turned to Alfredo. “So, Sauce... this back door you were talking about?”

“More of a side door, really.” Alfredo stepped over the dead guard, passing through the gate. “You gotta buy me dinner if you want back door stuff.” 

Rimmy Tim’s laugh sounded almost surprised. Without remark, he followed.

Beyond the gate, a terraced swimming pool shimmered in the darkness. Small waterfalls connected each level in streams. Alfredo was grateful for the serene noise of running water, masking his footsteps as he and Rimmy Tim circled around the pool. This was far more exposed than the garden. 

Every step of the way, Alfredo could hear crackles of gunfire echoing in the distance.

On the far side of the pool loomed the mansion, towering towards the stars, glinting with windows. Alfredo narrowed his eyes. A balcony stretched overhead, offering a perfect view of the pool and the expensive garden. From down here, Alfredo couldn’t tell if a crisply-dressed man was leaning on that chiseled railing, a glass of scotch in hand. It was almost worth lifting his rife and firing a silenced shot just over the railing, just in case.

Rimmy Tim gave him a nudge. “Is that your secret side door over there?”

Alfredo pulled his gaze back down. “Yeah. Stay sharp.”

As they approached the mansion, a different noise rose above the distant bang of guns: voices and footsteps from within the mansion. Instead of opening the door, Alfredo pressed himself against the wall next to it, followed closely by Rimmy Tim.

Muffled through the door, a single feminine voice rose above the others.

“Come on, boys, let’s see who Ronny’s in trouble with!”

The door slammed open. A staggering squadron of mercenaries marched through like a well-armed avalanche, laden with body armor and bristling with rifles. A woman led the group, dressed for a cocktail party but touting a massive machine gun. 

“Ha, I heard someone say it’s the Fakes! Oh, I hope it is. They’ve never seen a real woman in their life, but they’re about to.”

The squadron cut the warm light as they passed, shadows slanting across the pool. Alfredo pressed harder against the wall, his heart thumping. There must be at least twenty armed soldiers trampling the lawn. It was too many. Even with the targets calling to his gun, he’d never be able to drop them all in time.

Rimmy Tim muttered under his breath. “Looks like the Ripper is a little more curious than her guards.”

“They’re gonna catch up with the Vagabond and Kingpin,” Alfredo whispered back. “That’s too much to handle, even for them.”

“They’re tougher than you think. Let them do their job.” 

“They need a warning.” Alfredo tapped his com, turning the mic on. He whispered into it. “Reinforcements are coming your way, Kingpin.”

_ “Reinforcements, huh? How many?” _

“A big ol’ pile of hate. You gotta get out of there.”

_ “Sorry, Sauce, but this is my last stop. We need someone to sponge up all this extra firepower, and it looks like I’ve got their full attention.” _

Alfredo blinked as guards rushed past. “Hold up, what do you—“

_ “Vagabond, you know the plan, right?” _

_ “Sure do, boss.”  _

_ “I’ll cover your retreat, get it done. Kingpin’s gonna play boogeyman.” _

“You’re not fucking hearing me, Kingpin!” Alfredo spat the words as loud as he dared. “You’ve gotta peace out or you’re toast!”

_ “Then butter my ass and call me toast. We said we’d give you the Fakes for this raid, and you’re damn well getting the Fakes. Fakes aren’t afraid to die.”  _

With a curse, Alfredo lifted his rifle at the troops, now on the far side of the pool. A sharp clap on his shoulder jolted him before he could line up a shot.

“Kingpin’s giving us the option of stealth.” Rimmy Tim’s voice was level. “Don’t waste that.” 

Reluctantly, Alfredo lowered his gun. He could hear gunfire in the distance. Rimmy Tim’s hand stayed on his shoulder, as though not trusting him to keep his gun lowered.

“Come on. Boss knows what he’s doing.” 

The Ripper and her entourage didn’t so much as glance at their surroundings as they stampeded away. When they rushed through the pool gate and slipped out of sight, Alfredo finally turned back to Rimmy Tim.

“This isn’t how I do my job.” He didn’t mean the words to sound angry, but they were.

“I know, Sauce.”

“I don’t let people die for me so I can get the mission done.”

“You’re used to working alone, huh?”

_ Almost alone.  _ Alfredo bit back the words and simply nodded.

“Well, you’ve got a whole team for this job.” Rimmy Tim leaned through the open door, gun-first. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. You can focus on what you’re best at.”

“Sure, and I’ll let you guys focus on what you do best.” Alfredo spat the words bitterly. “Dying. Is that how this is gonna go?” 

Rimmy Tim shot him a sharp look. “Dying and coming back.” With one last glance at the shadowy pool, he slipped through the open door. “Let’s take advantage of the diversion.”

Setting his jaw like a clamp, Alfredo followed.

This wing of the mansion had a tropical flavor. Ron Gold loved his “paradise” comparisons. Alfredo and Rimmy Tim stepped into a bright lounge, complete with a mini bar that stretched one’s understanding of the word “mini.” The furniture was ornate and expensive, and everything was slathered in floral motifs and birds of paradise.

Rimmy Tim whistled at the colorful shelves of spirits and mixers. “Damn. Wish we had time to ransack his booze.”

No clever remark rose to Alfredo’s tongue. Instead, he grunted, “Come on, stairs are this way.”

Alfredo never liked stairwells, especially going up. The worst case scenario in a stairwell was a horrible mix of being cornered and out-flanked. The staircase in Ron Gold’s mansion was elegant, with a carved wood handrail and tasteful wall art, but it was no less dangerous than stained concrete steps and rusted steel rails. Alfredo held his breath the whole way up.

If Ron Gold had any other well-armed guests, they weren’t killing time in that particular stairwell.

As they reached the top, the stairs opened up into a well-furnished hall. The plush carpet muffled footsteps. Alfredo’s heartbeat was a steady thump in his ears, his gun held ready. The balcony wasn’t far. 

_ “Kingpin, are you still in the game?” _

Alfredo still wasn't used to voices in his ear, but at least he was learning to tell them apart. He didn't know how the Vagabond could sound so calm.

A hoarse cough responded.  _ “J-just barely. Ugh, shoulders are o-overrated, am I right?” _

The pain in his voice scraped on Alfredo’s spine. He bit his tongue as he scanned the hall for movement, sifting through every detail with an intensity that he hoped, incorrectly, would drown out the voices on the coms.

_ “Do you need a ticket home?” _

_ “N-negative. They’ve got me pinned, this won’t last much longer.”  _ The Kingpin winced audibly.  _ “B-besides, I always wanted to take out the Ripper. Stick to the mission, you all know what you’re doing.” _

Vagabond’s voice was grim.  _ “Can I ask a favor, boss?” _

_ “Anything for you, Vagabond.”  _

_ “Make it quick.” _

The Kingpin’s heavy exhale sounded almost satisfied.  _ “Oh, it will be. I’ve still got one grenade left. About to have a shortage of pins, though.” _

_ “You heard him, crew. Kingpin is down.”  _

Alfredo’s jaw ached. He nearly flinched when Rimmy Tim spoke, even though his voice was soft.

“Sauce, listen…”

A distant boom rattled the art on the walls. Alfredo’s shoulders went tense. Rimmy Tim let out a long, long breath.

“...It’s okay. He’s back home now.” 

Alfredo swallowed. “H-how do you get used to this?”

“Tell you what: after we kill Smegging Ron, I’ll answer that question.” 

The hallway seemed to stretch on for a mile. The itch of an unfinished job was buzzing in Alfredo’s head, competing with fight-or-flight and the hollow ache in his ears where the Kingpin wasn’t talking anymore. Deep down, Alfredo was always hungry for a good clean shot at a designated target. The catharsis of completing a job was like a full-body massage. 

He could  _ really  _ go for a massage.

_ “Sauce?” _

As if summoned by need, Trevor’s voice was in Alfredo’s ear. A blissful ounce of tension left his shoulders and escaped on his breath. “Yeah babe?”

_ “Just making sure you’re all good over there.” _

“Yeah.” Alfredo hushed his voice and slowed his steps as he approached a juncture in the hall. “Yeah, we’re all good.” 

The antechamber outside the balcony was framed by tall, glossy-leafed plants, as though Ron was attempting to bring the garden indoors. Alfredo gestured for Rimmy Tim to stay close and held a finger to his lips as they approached the corner. He had a feeling the balcony wouldn’t be unguarded. Sure enough, peering through the dark green stalks, he could see the ornate doors that led to the balcony and a swarm of security guards, this time Ron’s own. They had the well-dressed, polished look of someone whose firearms weren’t visible, but were definitely loaded.

_ “Strike team, how close are you to the balcony?” _

Rimmy Tim barely whispered his response. “We’re there. There’s a couple guards here, no surprise, but they don’t see us yet. We’re going in.” 

_ “Cheer up, lads! Should have those turrets playing for our team soon enough.” _

Beyond the plastic-shiny leaves of the potted plant, a guard tensed. He lifted a radio to his lips and murmured five words.

“All units, avoid security turrets.”

Before Alfredo’s stomach had time to drop, another guard tossed a grenade towards them. 

Rimmy Tim grabbed Alfredo’s arm and hurled him back down the hall with an intensity that Alfredo didn’t expect of a man almost a foot shorter than him. The shove sent him sprawling. Without hesitation, Rimmy Tim wrapped his hand around the live grenade and threw it back towards the guards.

_ BOOM _

The blast rattled the paintings and rang like knives in Alfredo’s ears. The grenade must have detonated in mid-air rather than amid the guards, because bullets were peppering the wall before the piercing echo had faded. 

“Fakes, go dark!” Rimmy Tim fired his gun around the corner, through the plants. “They’re on our coms! Stick to the plan and don’t say shit unless you have to!”

_ “Roger that, going dark!”  _

_ “Going dark!”  _

_ “Wait—!“  _ Trevor’s voice was sharp.  _ “How will I know if you—“ _

“You won’t! Coms off, emergency calls only,  _ no  _ discussing plans!”

Alfredo’s chest was tight as he pulled himself to his feet, gun ready. “Don’t worry about me, babe, I’ll be --”

“ _ No  _ coms!” Rimmy Tim interrupted harshly. “I’m reloading, Sauce, cover me!”

——

In the empty headquarters of the Fake AH Crew, one person stood alone in front of a scribble-ridden whiteboard. The computer hummed softly in the corner, still displaying a login screen. It was the only sound in the room.

Numbly, Trevor slipped the silent com out of his ear. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Heavy guilt, emotionally traumatic character death, graphic gun and knife violence, a character committing violence unwillingly, anxiety and brief panic attack, alcohol mention.

The antechamber was a bloodbath.

Alfredo’s breath was still short, his back glued to the wall as he peered around the corner to scan the room for movement. Bodies were strewn across the floor and slumped over ornate benches, oozing onto the fine marble. The elaborate double-doors to the balcony room were barely hanging on their hinges, slightly ajar.

There was no sound but his own breath and Rimmy Tim’s. No movement among the bodies.

Rimmy Tim let out a tense exhale. “Stay put,” he whispered. He stepped out into the antechamber, stepping over sharply-dressed corpses, his gun ready. After a moment, he turned back. “I think we’re all clear.”

Alfredo peeled himself off the wall. His heart was still thumping, but the zen of combat had settled over him. “How should we--”

Rimmy Tim held a hushing finger in front of his mask. He tapped his ear. “Mute the mic before you talk.” 

Alfredo fumbled with his com until he found the right button. A soft beep sliced his voice off from Fake and eavesdropper ears alike. “Do we wait for the others, or do we go in?”

“We go in, before he has time to call reinforcements.” Rimmy Tim hesitated, then softened his voice. “Listen… I’m sorry I snapped. I know you wanted to talk to Trevor, it’s just--”

“Yeah.” Alfredo's throat felt tight. “I know. I shouldn’t have called him ‘babe.’ Not when Ron’s goons were listening.” 

“If one of the Fakes sounded as scared as he did, I would have done the same.” 

“And you would have regretted it.”

“Yep.” With a gruff sigh, Rimmy Tim reached for the door handle. “Come on, let’s get the job done and get you home to him.” 

Alfredo grabbed Rimmy Tim’s arm before he could push the door open. “Hang on. Listen.”

Faintly, from beyond the closed door, Alfredo could hear something wrong. A soft, regular  _ beep beep beep.  _

Alfredo frowned. “There’s a turret in there.” 

“Awesome. Then we’ve already got a robot buddy.”

“Except that I’ve been on that balcony before, and there’s no turret.” Alfredo didn’t loosen his grip on Rimmy Tim’s arm. “And if that turret’s really on our side, then it’s already killed anyone in that room. Including Ron.” 

Rimmy Tim’s eyes narrowed. He slipped his mask off his face and held it just barely around the edge of the door. The beeping came to a sharp stop and a thunder of bullets sprayed through the gap. Rimmy Tim yanked his mask back behind the door and slipped it onto his now-pale face.

“Good call, Sauce,” he wheezed.

“Must not be connected to the system. Bit of last-minute security for Mr. Smeg.” Alfredo gave the ajar door a thoughtful look. “You got anything that goes boom?”

Rimmy Tim’s masked gaze dropped to the dead guards. “I bet one of them does.” 

The grenade was buried under an expensive dress jacket, only slightly smeared with blood, the pin still firmly in place. When Rimmy Tim tossed it into the room, it made a satisfying metal sound against the floor. Then a much louder sound.

_ BOOM _

The doors rattled. When the ringing faded, Rimmy Tim cautiously pushed the door open.

The once-decadent balcony was a disaster zone of scorched leather upholstery, cracked marble, and splintered hardwood. Beyond the now-shattered glass doors, the starry sky and shadowy garden spanned out. In the center of the room lay a mangled turret, one tripod leg crumpled from the blast. 

Something was missing. There were no bodies in the room, living or dead. No Ron.

“He’s not here.” Alfredo’s hands tightened on his gun. “He’s not fucking  _ here.”  _

Rimmy Tim let out a tense breath. “It was the coms. He knew we were coming to the balcony.” He turned back towards the door. “Let’s go find him. I don’t think he’d risk leaving the compound.” 

Alfredo couldn’t pull his gaze off the rubble-scattered balcony. Ron Gold should have been leaning against that chiseled marble railing, a scotch in one hand and a gun in the other, a gun he wouldn’t have lifted in time. That was the mission. That was the whole  _ point. _

“Sauce. We have to go.” 

“Kingpin died so we could have stealth,” Alfredo said numbly. “We… we never had stealth.”

He jolted as a firm hand gripped his shoulder. The touch somehow released him from the phantasmic grip of the man who wasn’t there. 

“Can’t kill a Fake, Sauce.” Rimmy Tim's voice was calm through his mask. “Kingpin made a tactical decision to keep a bunch of heat off us, and it worked. It was his choice.” 

“Does that make it better? Getting to choose how you die?”

“Yes. It changes everything.”

The desk in the corner of the room suddenly produced a sound that desks shouldn’t make.

Whatever embarrassing frailty had crept over Alfredo’s heart was snuffed out like a candle. Instinct drew his gun out of his holster and into his hand, yanked the barrel towards the sound. Rimmy Tim had done the same. They shared a silent glance, then the two men approached the heavy, scorched desk. The desk had produced a noise that sounded a lot like a human trying to not be heard. 

Alfredo slipped around the back of the desk and found his barrel pointing at a young woman, curled up for shelter. She wasn’t dressed like a security guard.

“D-don’t shoot!” Her hands were lifted in terrified surrender. “P-please, I’m just the secretary!”

Alfredo tentatively lowered his gun. From the corner of the eye, he could see Rimmy Tim doing the same.

“Cover the door, Sauce.” Rimmy Tim knelt down beside the desk, softening his voice. “It’s okay, we won’t hurt you. We’re only here for Ron.” 

Alfredo turned his eyes and his gun towards the door, settling into the zen-like state of an ambush predator. He could stay like this for hours, waiting for someone to enter his crosshairs, so it was no trouble to listen carefully to what was happening behind him.

The woman’s voice was quaking with fear. “I-I don’t know where he is, please!”

“That’s okay. I won’t ask you to tell me anything.” Rimmy Tim kept his words gentle. “I’m sorry about the grenade, we didn’t expect a civilian to be here. Are you hurt?”

Alfredo kept his eyes on the door, but he could hear a soft jingle of earrings as the woman shook her head.

“Should we leave you alone, or do you need help getting out of here?”

“I… I’d rather stay here.”

“All right. Do what you need to stay safe, my crew won’t bother you.” 

“O-okay.” 

“If you change your mind about needing to get out of here, find one of us.” Rimmy Tim tapped his gloved finger against his mask. “You see someone wearing a mask like this, tell ‘em Rimmy Tim said to help you.”

“He’s in the wine cellar,” the woman blurted suddenly. “Mr. Gold. He knew you were coming, he— he’s in there, with guards.” 

The words yanked Alfredo’s attention away from the door. It was hard to read Rimmy Tim’s expression through the mask, but he saw that gloved hand tighten on the grip of his gun.

“Thank you.” Rimmy Tim stood up. “You didn’t have to tell me that. But I appreciate it.” 

The secretary’s eyes were earnest. “Be careful. H-he’s ready for you.” 

“That’s okay. We’re ready for him too.” Rimmy Tim cocked his gun. “Stay safe. Tell the cops whatever you have to. You’ve already done plenty for us.” 

Leaving her in that decimated room felt wrong. Alfredo’s brow furrowed as he and Rimmy Tim slipped back out into the corpse-strewn antechamber. Anything other than leaving her behind would have felt worse.

“Cellar.” Rimmy Tim blew out a rough breath. “And he’s expecting us. Fuck.”

Alfredo shot him a look. “So what’s the over-under on this being a trap?”

“You think she lied?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“I do too.” Rimmy Tim pressed a hand against his neck and cracked it, wincing. “But even if it’s a trap, it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

“And even if it’s  _ not _ a trap, I’d feel better with a few more Fakes at our back.”

“Worth a shot.” Rimmy Tim cleared his throat and tapped his com, un-muting it. “Hey guys, you think I’d still look good in the Vagabond’s jacket? Wouldn’t mind trying it on again.” 

The response was sharp in Alfredo’s ear.

_ “Coms are compromised, Rimmy, shut the hell up!” _

“Shit, sorry.” 

Rimmy Tim muted his com again with a soft click. Although his voice had sounded tense, his body language said otherwise. Alfredo squinted.

“Uh… what was that?”

“An inside joke.” Rimmy Tim adjusted his cowboy hat. “One that should make them think of caves. And hopefully, cellars.”

Alfredo frowned. With a huff, he followed his colorful companion. “I hope you know how much it sounds like you fucked the Vagabond in a cave.”

“Well, Sauce, that’s because I fucked the Vagabond in a cave.” 

“Ah, I get you. A little change of scenery gets the blood pumping, huh?”

Rimmy Tim chuckled. “You’ve got no idea. So, you know the way to the wine cellar?” 

“Oh yeah. Sampled a real nice rosé last time I was here. Ron’s a prick, but he’s got good taste in wine.”

“Lead the way.” 

It was a relief to leave the bloody antechamber behind. Alfredo swore he could still hear a faint  _ BOOM  _ echoing off the bullet-ridden walls, weaponized energy designed to tear a human body apart. He’d never had a grenade thrown at him before. 

Now probably wasn’t a good time to process that new experience.

_ “Hello, yes, Golden Boy here, having a bit of a panic!”  _

Alfredo’s gun snapped up before he realized the voice had come from his com. He let out a tense breath as Rimmy Tim hissed a reply.

“Coms are still compromised, shut up!”

Golden Boy didn’t sound like he was speaking in some sort of code.  _ “Well whoever’s listening can piss off for a second, I’d like to have a spot of a crisis if it’s all the same to you! How the bloody hell did they get into our coms? I prettied up the encryption so much after last time, we should have been safe—“ _

_ “Easy, Golden Boy.”  _ The Vagabond’s low voice was strangely gentle.  _ “We’ve had this happen before. We step up our game, the other guys step up their game. It happens. Don’t blame yourself.”  _

_ “But—“ _

_ “This is why we use codenames. This is why we know each other so well we don’t need field commands. We know we might lose coms, that’s why we don’t need coms to win. Besides, you’re at your best without a plan, aren’t you?” _

_ “…Aw, Vaggy…” _

_ “Keep those pretty golden guns loaded and make me proud, yeah?” _

_ “Cheers, love. I needed to hear that.” _

_ “Any time.” _

_ “Oi, eavesdroppers, that’s what a supportive boyfriend looks like! Don’t you forget it!” _

The Vagabond chuckled.  _ “Going dark again.”  _

As the coms returned to silence, Alfredo shot Rimmy Tim a look. “Is Golden Boy okay? He broke radio silence for that.”

Rimmy Tim’s sigh was worried. “No, I don’t think he was okay. He’s… an intense person, you know? He needs something to direct his energy towards, otherwise it burns him up from the inside. He must have thought that radio silence wasn’t as important as stabilizing himself, and he was probably right.” 

“Mogar couldn’t stabilize him?”

“That’s what worries me. Mogar was either busy, or they’ve been separated, or… Mogar was also feeling unstable.” A weak gratefulness overtook his voice. “I’m glad Vagabond picked it up. He’s good at grounding people.” 

It was unnerving to hear no humor in Rimmy Tim’s tone. Alfredo gave him a playful nudge. “Hey, no one told me the Fakes were a bunch of romantics. I’m out here trying to do a job and you all can’t stop blowing kisses.”

To his relief, Rimmy Tim chuckled. “Yeah, sorry about all Fake-on-Fake flirting. We’re trying to take it easy around the guests, but… old habits die hard.” 

“I spend half my life flirting, doesn’t bother me.” Alfredo leaned around a corner, scoping out the hall. No enemies to the left, all quiet to the right. “So… Golden Boy called Vagabond his boyfriend. Not to pry, but how’s that all work? Thought he was with Mogar.”

“Oh, Golden Boy  _ is _ with Mogar.” Rimmy Tim’s smile was suddenly audible, warm and glowing in his voice. “And the Vagabond. And me. And the rest of the crew.” 

Alfredo squinted at him. “…Rimmy, I’m starting to suspect that the entire crew is rawing each other.”

“We sure are.” 

“No wonder Ron can’t stand the thought of you.” 

“And what about you, Sauce?”

The question could have sounded flirty, but something told Alfredo that Rimmy Tim was asking a different question entirely. He shrugged and started down the left branch of the hall, towards the grand foyer.

“Can’t say you’ve got bad taste. I’ve heard a lot about the Fakes, but no one says they’re hard on the eyes.” 

“Ha! They sure aren’t.” Rimmy Tim slowed his stride as the hall opened up. “Which way, Sauce?”

Beyond the hall was an indoor balcony overlooking a two-story foyer, towering and decadent. Alfredo held his gun ready. 

“We’re getting close.”

The foyer was half museum. Nearly at eye-level with the balcony was a lavish crystal chandelier, glittering like a window frozen mid-shatter. Renaissance-style oil paintings hung on the walls, and elaborate ceramic perched on every polished mahogany table. From the balcony descended two curving staircases, veined marble steps down to the floor below. 

“Ugh.” Alfredo stepped back from the polished wood railing, hugging the wall as he approached the stairs. “Too exposed. Be careful through here.” 

Down the stairs, through the foyer, and around the corner would be the stairs to the cellar. Alfredo’s mind was already creeping down those stone steps. He took a long breath, trying to keep his thoughts in line with his own feet. There was still veined marble under his shoes.

“So, Rimmy,” he remarked. “You’ve made love to all the Fakes. Who’s the best in bed?”

Rimmy Tim nudged his cowboy hat with his pistol. “Me.”

“You fuck yourself often, huh?”

“Well, people are always telling me to.”

“See, I was gonna guess Wheels. The nice ones are always freaks in bed.” 

“Oh, they’re all freaks.”

“Now  _ that  _ I believe.”

A bullet zinged past Rimmy Tim’s head and shattered a porcelain vase. 

Alfredo dove behind an elaborate couch with red paisley upholstery. He could hear the ripping  _ thud  _ of the next bullet shredding expensive fabric. Rimmy Tim was beside him, hunkering behind the cover and wincing at the thunder of bullets.

“Is that a green star I saw?” A voice cackled. “Mr. Gold sure knows a thing or two about hospitality! He’s serving up Fakes!” 

“Hot and fresh!”

“Gonna be a cold Fake soon!”

“Hey Fake, remember the Skeptics?”

More gunfire rattled overhead. Rimmy Tim let out a groan through his mask, his head thumping back against the couch. 

“For fuck’s sake, how are these assholes still relevant…?”

Alfredo shot him a dry look. “Friends of yours?”

“Oh yeah, we go way back.” Rimmy Tim stood and fired a few shots over the couch, drawing a scream from the other end of the room. “One time I killed one of ‘em with a --  _ fuck!”  _

“You all right?”

Rimmy Tim ducked behind cover again, rubbing his chest. “Man, those bulletproof vests sure don’t stop bruises, huh? Really wakes you up!” 

Alfredo frowned. He popped up like a meerkat, fired one shot, and dropped down before they could return fire.

“Good news, they’re not wearing body armor.” He reloaded. “Not over their eye sockets, anyway.”

The smug cackles from across the room were rapidly being overtaken by curses. “Will someone fucking rush them already?”

“I’m not doing it!” 

“Rush them yourself!” 

“Fuck it, who has the rocket launcher? I’ve got some bad news for Ron’s furniture!”

For one cold heartbeat, Alfredo’s hands froze on his gun.  _ Weaponized energy designed to tear a human body apart.  _ He’d never had a rocket fired at him before. In a surreal moment of loss, he turned to Rimmy Tim.

Never before had Alfredo seen fear through the eye holes of that mask.

"Sauce?" The forced calm in Rimmy Tim's voice was tenuous. "I need covering fire on three. Got it?"

Alfredo nodded.

Rimmy Tim reloaded his gun, his breath audible through his mask. “One, two--  _ now!”  _

Alfredo didn’t wait to see what Rimmy Tim did. He stood up and started firing at anything and everything that moved. A gun poked out around the corner, pointing blindly. Alfredo’s bullet  _ pinged  _ off the barrel, sending it flying from the owner’s hand. He saw a flicker of movement above a couch -- another bang, a much heavier thump. In the corner of his vision, Rimmy Tim dove behind a couch. Alfredo didn’t stop firing until he ran out of bullets, then he reloaded and fired again and again and again until there was no sound or movement in the foyer. 

The quiet didn’t feel trustworthy. Alfredo’s breath was tense through his bandana, his gun still lifted.

“Rimmy?” Alfredo turned his gun towards the couch as he approached gingerly. “Rimmy, you got ‘em?”

He peered behind the couch.

Rimmy Tim was crouched over a motionless body, his hands locked around the man’s throat. He was breathing heavily, his arms shaking, but the man under him wasn’t breathing at all. An unloaded rocket launcher was discarded beside them.

As though some silent timer had rung, Rimmy Tim let out a shuddering breath and slipped his hands off the man’s neck. He stumbled upright. No movement stirred in the body at his feet.

“Fuck.” He braced himself against the wall, clutching at his stomach as though it was turning. “That was -- that was more up-close then I intended. Whoof. Hand-to-hand is a real trip, am I right?” 

Alfredo reloaded his gun. “Someone probably heard this little shindig. Let’s move out before we get company.”

“H-hold up a second, Sauce.”

The tremor in Rimmy Tim’s voice sent a chill up Alfredo’s spine. Rimmy Tim hadn’t stopped leaning against the wall. As he slipped his mask off, his face was chillingly pale beneath.

“I-I’m gonna need a favor,” he said through his teeth.

Alfredo lowered his gun. “…Shit.” 

An uneasy stomach wasn’t what had drawn Rimmy Tim’s hand to his ribs. The hilt of a pocket knife protruded between his fingers, his white glove staining red.

“I-I think I just went from ‘protection’ to ‘liability’--” Rimmy Tim nearly buckled with a strained noise. “Ffffffuck it hurts—“

Alfredo rushed to Rimmy Tim’s side, grabbing his jacket to hold him upright. “Whoa whoa whoa, hey, stay with me—”

“S-sorry, I was s-supposed to keep you safe…” Rimmy Tim winced, gripping Alfredo for support. “Ah shit, V-Vagabond’s gonna chew me out…”

“Hey, come on, you’re not out of the game yet. We can…” Alfredo’s stomach was twisting as he watched the blood seep through Rimmy Tim’s shaking fingers. “C-come on, reinforcements are converging on the cellar, just gotta go a little further. We’ll wrap up your little scrape, yeah?” 

“N-no, just gonna slow you down, put you in danger, I-I’m not…” Rimmy Tim’s voice was weak. “Sauce… I don’t wanna die slowly.” 

“Then don’t die, come on!”

“S-sorry to ask this, but…“ Rimmy Tim held out his pistol grip-first, his breath labored. “I-I’m gonna need you to put one more bullet in me, buddy.” 

Alfredo stared at the gun. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t how he was supposed to kill.

“Y-you know what to do without me, right?” Rimmy Tim grabbed at Alfredo’s arm. “G-get close to the cellar and hold position until reinforcements arrive. Coms only if you h-have to. Don’t—  _ don’t  _ fight him yourself, promise me.” 

“I—“ Alfredo swallowed. He couldn’t take the gun from Rimmy’s shaking hand. “I can’t just shoot you.”

“C-come on, you’ve shot me before.” Rimmy Tim summoned up a fragile smile. “Just like old times, Sauce.”

Alfredo shook his head, his fist tightening in Rimmy Tim’s jacket. “That’s different! We’re cool now!”

“Th-that’s why I need—“ Pain almost made the gun slip from Rimmy Tim’s hand. “Please, it  _ hurts—“ _

Alfredo took the gun before it could fall. His hand was trembling as his fingers slipped into the familiar position, lifting the barrel to Rimmy Tim’s forehead.

“…Y-you’d better fucking come back,” he breathed.

Something like relief crossed Rimmy Tim’s face. He squeezed Alfredo’s arm. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’ll be back, I promise. S’gonna be okay, Alfredo.”

The gun jumped in Alfredo’s hand as he squeezed the trigger.

When a bullet found its mark, a surreal moment followed. The body didn’t collapse right away. Human muscles, after being alive for years and years, didn’t understand when they were suddenly dead. The body remained upright even as blood welled up from the bullet wound, all systems still running in place like an old fashioned cartoon character. Alfredo knew this transition like he knew the grip of his gun. He could count the heartbeats under his breath, the time between the fatal gunshot and the complete surrender of the human body.

His own heartbeats. Not Rimmy’s.

Death was not a visitor to be turned away. One by one, every muscle went slack. An empty body collapsed at Alfredo’s feet. Shaking, Alfredo reloaded Rimmy Tim’s gun and slipped it into his belt.

Just like that, the Sauce was working alone again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Guilt, anxiety, gun violence and murder, blackmail, brief torture, transphobic language, bathroom humor, brief and loosely-described hand gore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: I’ve decided to continue and finish this story in its originally-intended form with the original cast of characters. I'll make a more detailed announcement about that later, but for now please assume that I'm finishing the story the way I always intended to, nothing more.
> 
> As another note, I thought I'd be finishing the story in one more chapter, but it's gonna be two! Enjoy the extra chapter!

Alfredo was used to working in silence, but this silence felt wrong. 

The stairs to the cellar were quiet and cold. Rough-cut stone, like a castle dungeon, leading down into the earth. Alfredo had to focus on each step to keep his footfalls silent. His grip on his gun was too tight, fingers shaking on the unfamiliar shape of Rimmy Tim’s pistol.

Things weren’t supposed to be quiet around the Fakes. Every time Alfredo had been around them, they’d been a constant stream of chatter. There should have been talk over the coms, information about everyone’s position, banter. The only voice Alfredo could hear was an echo of Rimmy Tim in his head, begging him to pull the trigger.

_ Cellar,  _ the secretary had said. But Ron’s cellar was extensive. Alfredo slowed his footsteps as he approached the bottom of the staircase. The room beyond was a cavernous lounge, furnished like a luxury mead hall. Empty, quiet. Alfredo lingered by the staircase and the cover it provided, thinking. Where would a man like Ron sit and wait smugly for his assassins? What backdrop would add the finest ambiance to his monologue? He struggled to focus on the questions. This was Trevor’s wheelhouse, not his. 

Alfredo almost touched his com. The tactical conundrum was a sweet, tempting excuse to hear Trevor’s voice. A dangerous one. With a silent breath, he pushed the temptation aside. He’d been doing business with Ron for the past month or two, he’d looked over all of Trevor’s research, he’d gotten a tour of the mansion. He should know this man.

…The tasting room. That’s where Ron would be. Surrounded by cushy leather furniture, candelabras, and a few mounted deer heads. Alfredo had sampled a lovely rosé the last time he’d been there. It was a room for trophies, for bragging. That’s where Ron would be waiting with whatever death trap he’d cooked up.

Alfredo lingered on the stone stairwell. The tasting room was close by, down a long stone hallway to the left. With a grunt, he made for the right hallway instead, towards the wine storage. He tugged the red bandana off his face and dropped it by the door before he pushed it open. Alfredo was used to working alone, but he’d promised Rimmy Tim he wouldn’t work alone this time.

Ron Gold hoarded wine the way a dragon hoarded gold. Drinking it wasn’t the point. Alfredo stepped into a dark forest of dusty glass bottles and old wooden shelves. There was more overpriced alcohol in these cellars than a person could drink in their lifetime, at least not while staying sober enough to taste it. Alfredo found himself a dark little dead end, put his back to the wall, and aimed his gun at the only way in. Defensible, on one hand. On the other hand, nowhere to run. Alfredo’s hushed breath felt too loud in the musty silence. Ambush predator. He could do this. Patience was his job.

Sooner or later, one of the Fakes would find him. That was the plan. Kingpin said that was the plan, if you lose your partner then you wait for -- 

If you shoot your own partner in the skull, then you rendez-vous at --

_ Kingpin was dead and so were his plans -- _

Alfredo’s breath was growing louder. 

_ Coms only if you have to.  _ Alfredo’s hand twitched towards his com, freezing inches from his ear. The Kingpin was down. Rimmy Tim was down. For all he knew, Mogar and Golden Boy and Wheels and Vagabond were down too. If Alfredo had to hit his target solo, he needed to know right now. He couldn’t just sit here and wait for help that wasn’t coming, until a private army found this feeble refuge and gunned him down like a cornered animal. Or worse, brought him back to Ron. 

He needed to know if he was working alone again. His fingers brushed the com.

Footsteps scuffed the dusty floor.

Alfredo’s hand shot away from the com and back onto his gun. He held his breath. Between the dark shelves, in the gaps between bottles, he could see movement.

A shiny gold hockey mask with a green star peeked around the corner.

The trigger didn’t compress under Alfredo’s twitching finger, but just barely. Golden Boy stood in the dusty wine cellar like a miracle, and as Alfredo watched, Mogar moved into view behind him. Alfredo had never been so relieved to see those green stars.

“Saucy!” Golden Boy flicked his mask up. “You all right?”

“Y-yeah.” Alfredo lowered his gun. He couldn’t convince his finger to leave the trigger. “Holding it together.” 

“Where’s Rimmy?”

“Rimmy—“ The pistol felt guilty in his hand. “He got shot.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Mogar sighed heavily, his gun and his gaze still scanning the quiet shelves. “Shit. That’s two Fakes down.” He finally tossed Alfredo a glance. “We need to move. The sooner we waste Smegging Ron, the sooner we get you out of here.” 

Alfredo swallowed. “I-I should have kept my wingman alive.” 

Golden Boy shook his head. “It was his job to take a bullet for you. Wouldn’t want it the other way round.” 

“Golden Boy, cover the room for a moment.” Mogar slipped his mask off and stepped closer to Alfredo. His voice was strangely patient, like a parent trying to rush a child out the door. “Sauce, he’s okay. You’ll see him again when we’re back in HQ. Come on, let’s go shoot some people.” 

“He asked me to put him down,” Alfredo blurted. 

Mogar’s gaze sharpened. It was like having a staring contest with a power drill. Words gushed out of Alfredo in a panicked confession.

“He was in a lot of pain, there was a knife, and he — he asked me to make it quick. He begged me.” 

Alfredo flinched as Mogar clapped a vice-like hand on his shoulder. He didn’t think he could have pulled away if he tried.

“Thank you,” Mogar whispered.

Alfredo blinked. At length, he nodded. “Y-yeah. Anytime.” 

“Come on. You’re with us, buddy.” Mogar flipped his mask down. “We’ve got a bastard to kill.” He reached into his pocket. “Oh… and I think this is yours.”

He held out a red bandana.

The words, or perhaps the sight of that bandana, seemed to fix something broken in Alfredo’s chest. He took the bandana and tied it back on his face where it belonged. Closure was an emotion that Alfredo associated with the moment he pulled a trigger. Out of all the times he’d had killed, he’d never ached for someone to forgive him for it.

“So what’s going on, Sauce?” Mogar’s voice was all business. “Rimmy’s down, you’re here, and I think we were supposed to rendez-vous on the basement. What’s the plan?”

Even with forgiveness, the words “ _ Rimmy’s down”  _ still stung. Alfredo focused on the textures of his gun, the shape of the mission. “Ron wasn’t on the balcony. He heard us coming on the coms and cleared out. His secretary ratted him out, says he’s waiting in the wine cellar. I think I know which room.”

It was hard to be sure, but Alfredo thought he saw Golden Boy’s shoulders slump at the mention of the coms. A strange pang of guilt gripped him. He cleared his throat. 

“Hey, uh, don’t sweat the coms, Goldie. Shit happens, right? Like Vagabond said.”

With a miserable moan, Golden Boy slipped a hand under his mask to rub his face, nearly crumpling where he stood. “O-oh jiminy  _ cricket  _ I forgot you could hear that!” 

Mogar chuckled. “Yeah, he’s feeling better. Just needed a little pick-me-up, right buddy?” 

“What about you, Mogar?”

“Me? I’m fine.”

“Mogey was covering the door,” Golden Boy said glumly, speaking through both his hand and the mask. “I was messing with the Smegger’s security, trying to get into his cams, and… I just panicked. Felt like I couldn’t do anything right. Needed to hear a voice but Mogar was  _ busy _ keeping me alive.”

“And I’ll do it again, too.” Mogar lifted his gun. “Come on, are you two gonna let me kill this bastard myself?” 

Alfredo’s frown sharpened. “Oh  _ shit  _ no, I’ve more than earned this.”

“You’re damn right you have, Sauce. Take us to him.”

It felt good to not be working alone anymore.

There was no way to sneak into the tasting room. It waited at the end of a long stone hallway with a vaulted ceiling, where every soft sound echoed and boomed from one heavy oak door to the other. The last time Alfredo had been here, he’d assumed the acoustics were just a drumroll before the tasting room’s performance. Now the architecture of the hall felt more like an automated defense, as much as the turrets were.

The three of them strode down the hall with their weapons drawn. If the echoes of the stone hall hadn’t given them away, the geological creaking of the massive oak door surely did.

The tasting room was a place for trophies, for bragging. Austere taxidermy bristled on the walls, pale antlers and dark glass eyes. Racks of wine bottles flanked the room. On the center table, a bottle of rosé was open, a glass already poured, and over it stood the man that called to Alfredo’s crosshairs.

Ron Gold wasn’t alone. 

Two bodyguards flanked him, one on each side, but Alfredo’s gaze was immediately drawn lower down. Bound to a chair next to the open bottle of rosé was another trophy: the Vagabond, pale-faced and breathing hard, held at Ron’s gunpoint.

“Well.” Ron Gold’s mouth twitched, a half-smile. “If it isn’t my favorite contractor.”

The Vagabond’s jaw was tense with a failed effort not to show pain. There was a harsh bruise darkening on his cheek underneath a cut, the kind of blunt force that could have been left by brass knuckles or the back of a gun. Ron’s pistol was pointed not at his head or chest, but at his thigh.

It wasn’t a threat of murder, it was a threat of torture.

Golden Boy made a noise. It was a choked, panicked, half-formed word, halted before it could cross his tongue. Somehow, Alfredo could tell that he’d been about to call the Vagabond’s real name.

Mogar stepped in front of Alfredo, nearly blocking his view. “That’s the worst decision I’ve seen in a long time, Smegging Ron.”

Ron Gold’s voice was as level and polite as ever. “Are you really going to make me say the words ‘lower your weapons,’ or is it implied?”

After a tense moment, Golden Boy and Mogar both lowered their guns. Alfredo’s jaw twitched as he did the same.

Ron Gold’s smile wasn’t the one Alfredo remembered. The facsimile of a gentleman was peeling at the corners. His ash-grey button-up couldn’t pull off the same superhuman feat as the full three-piece suit: Ron Gold’s imposing physique seemed to claw at the finely tailored garment like a feral dog in a cage.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Fake AH Crew. My guards tell me that your six is down to four.” Ron gave Alfredo a token nod. “Plus your little tag-along, of course. Finding better business ventures these days, Al?” He nudged the gun casually against the Vagabond’s thigh. “Shall we make it  _ three  _ little Fakes?”

The Vagabond grunted. “Not with your gun there, we shan’t. I don’t keep my vital organs in my leg.” 

Ron Gold fired.

Golden Boy jolted as though he’d been the one to take the bullet. Every muscle on Mogar’s body seemed to clench like a fist as the Vagabond held back a scream behind his teeth. As though bored, Ron Gold slid the gun down the Vagabond’s shaking, bleeding leg until the barrel rested against his kneecap. 

“Hm. Seems he was right. No organs there.” 

“You’ve got a funny way of negotiating,” Mogar spat.

“Ah, how right you are. I have you by the balls, don’t I?” He seemed, for a moment, to turn his attention to Golden Boy. “Those of you with balls, of course.” 

The Vagabond trembled in his chair, weak whines slipping out through his clenched teeth. Blood was welling up from the wound and saturating one leg of his pants. Alfredo had seen blood before, but this was making him lightheaded.

Ron gave the three of them a nod. “Lay your weapons down, if you would be so kind. If you behave, I’ll let you live long enough to prove you can be useful.”

The Vagabond lifted his gaze, his eyes watering. He gave a small, stiff nod.

Golden Boy’s gun snapped up, and six shots were fired in the same second.

Ron’s bullet shattered the Vagabond’s kneecap before Golden Boy’s sights could line up. This time, the Vagabond screamed. Alfredo’s own gun was lifting the moment he sensed which bodyguard Golden Boy was aiming for — one guard fired, and Alfredo could hear the sickening  _ thump  _ of a bullet hitting Mogar in the chest — before he and Golden Boy fired and both guards dropped.

Mogar didn’t stumble when he took the shot. He didn’t aim for a bodyguard or for Ron. He shot the Vagabond clean through the skull, silencing his agony in one dull  _ bang.  _

For one fleeting moment, Ron Gold’s disciplined face broke into an expression that Alfredo — and possibly the world — had never seen before. As he stared at the smoking gun that Mogar had used to execute his own teammate, Ron Gold was  _ impressed. _

Before he could regain his composure, Golden Boy shot the gun out of his hand.

The  _ thump  _ of Ron’s powerful body collapsing to the floor seemed to snap time back into place. Golden Boy coldly reloaded his gun as Ron Gold howled curses, dripping red all over the expensive stone floor.

“A deal’s a deal.” Mogar lowered his gun away from the bleeding man, but not his searing gaze. “As much as I’d like to blast him myself, he’s all yours, Sauce.”

Alfredo risked pulling his eyes off Ron Gold for a moment. “You took a hit. You okay?“

“Kevlar.” Mogar rubbed the impact with a wince. “This is nothing. Rimmy’s done worse to me in bed.”

Golden Boy threw him a hurt look. “Oi,  _ I’ve  _ done worse to you in bed too!”

“Babe, I love you, but you only hit hard verbally.” 

“Damn right,” Golden Boy sniffed.

Alfredo kept his gun lifted as he approached Ron. The man’s snarls were stamped into silence, leaving nothing but furious winces contorting his face. He was pulling himself onto his knees, cradling his bleeding hand, but he seemed to know he’d never rise any higher. His expression was cold as he locked eyes with Alfredo.

“B-better business ventures indeed,” Ron Gold said stiffly.

Alfredo knew how to kill without saying a word, but this was a special circumstance. “You know, it’s been a while since I wasn’t sure which bathroom to use.” He tilted his head. “Now I’m gonna be conflicted between the men’s room or your grave.”

“H-ha. I should have known.” A sneer spread across Ron Gold’s face like an oil spill. His words were acrid with pain and hate. “You’ll fit right in with them, freak.”

Alfredo frowned. He grip tightened on Rimmy Tim’s pistol.

“I want this to be the last thing you hear: suck my clit.”

He fired. 

Deep down, Alfredo was always hungry for a good clean shot at a designated target. The catharsis of completing a job was like a full-body massage. His finger squeezed the trigger and Rimmy Tim’s gun jumped in his hand, more spirited than his own pistol, but a familiar feeling all the same.

Closure.

There was no breath left in the body. No more words. Alfredo let out a long, long sigh. He was glad that he used Rimmy’s gun. He was glad that Rimmy got to be a part of that.

“Hey, Sauce?”

Ron’s body didn’t have anything more to offer him. Alfredo lowered the gun and turned his attention to Mogar. “Yeah?”

Mogar gave him a nod. “You  _ do  _ fit right in.” 

“Want a bev for the road, lads?”

Golden Boy was leaning against the table, daintily holding the glass of rosé. Mogar’s mask couldn’t contain his scowl. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare drink on the job.”

“It’s already poured,” Golden Boy justified, swirling the glass.

“We’ve got booze at home, idiot.”

With a huff, Golden Boy flicked the glass at a ninety degree angle, flinging the rosy contents across the carpet. “Spoilsport.” 

Mogar shook his head. “Come on, we should get moving. The Sauce doesn’t have an express ticket home, and that means we’ve still got a potentially dangerous walk ahead of us.”

It should have been easy to leave that room behind, but something was tugging on Alfredo’s attention. The Vagabond was slumped in his chair, only held upright by his bondage, boasting three oozing bullet holes. Alfredo eyed the body gingerly. This corpse felt unfinished in a way that Ron didn’t.

“So that’s what he meant,” Alfredo mumbled.

Mogar glanced at the body, then at Alfredo. “You wanna share with the class?”

“When the Vagabond talked about a price.” A ghostly tingle crept over Alfredo’s skin, exactly where Rimmy Tim’s shaking hand had grabbed his arm. “The price isn’t death. It’s that you don’t get to choose how you die.” 

_ Sauce, I don’t wanna die slowly. _

Mogar’s hand gripped his shoulder. It seemed to chase the phantom fingers away.

“C’mon, Sauce, you’re not gonna find any answers in a dead body. That’s not him anymore. The real Vagabond is waiting back at HQ. They all are.” 

Golden Boy was spinning a pistol on his finger. “You’re buying me a drink when we get home, Mogey.” 

“For the last time, we’ve got plenty of booze at home. I’m not buying you shit.” 

Laughter felt strange in Alfredo’s chest, but not unwelcome. He followed the two men back into the hallway, leaving the tasting room behind, along with a finished job and an untouched bottle of rosé.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gun violence, brief religious musings, mentions of police abuses of power, use of alcohol to cope with anxiety.

Killing Ron felt like cutting the head off the snake, but the estate was a writhing hydra. His death brought no peace. Gunfire and explosions ripped through the night as Alfredo slunk through the shadowy gardens, two Fakes in tow. It was hard to say who the remaining guests were shooting at. Presumably, each other.

Alfredo remembered the way back to the wall where he and Rimmy Tim had scaled the stone bricks and hidden their climbing gear. However, when he arrived, it didn’t look like he remembered.

“Well.” Alfredo put his hands on his hips. “That complicates our escape.”

Some form of explosive had found its way here. The once-neat hedge was a slaughter of twigs and leaves mixed into clumps of turf. Carabiners and climbing cord and scraps of the bag that once held them were strewn among the debris. A few bodies -- and body parts -- were scattered around as well. This had clearly been the front for one of the many wars being waged on the expensive property.

“Guess we’re not climbing,” Golden Boy remarked.

Alfredo held up a ratty piece of climbing cord. It nearly fell apart under its own weight. “I sure wouldn’t trust my life with that. Would you?”

Mogar and Golden Boy exchanged a hockey-masked look. At length Mogar said, “Well, we wouldn’t trust  _ your  _ life, anyway.” 

With a disgusted huff, Alfredo dropped the ruined climbing gear. “It’s starting to feel awkward, being the only one who can die.” 

“Then let’s get out of here so we can all stop thinking about that.”

“Follow the wall, right?” Golden Boy took a few skipping steps forward. “It’s gotta have a gate somewhere. Bet the rest of the party guests didn’t scale the walls like we did, probably walked in through some sort of door. Should be to the south, if I remember the layout.” 

Once again, they crept off into the night. The compound was a far cry from the beautiful landscaping that Alfredo had admired when he'd been given a tour. Ron Gold’s once-immaculate estate was pockmarked with bullet holes, blast marks, and the destruction of grenades. In a few places, orange flames smoldered, the kiss of incendiary arms. As the three of them followed the wall, Alfredo’s gaze was drawn to a sizable crater in the soft green lawn. Small explosives seemed to have been popular party favors to bring. Hell, the Fakes themselves had brought some grenades.

The Kingpin had been holding one when he died. 

_ I’ve still got one grenade left. About to have a shortage of pins, though. _

Alfredo’s stomach turned over. He ripped his gaze away from the blast, suddenly grateful for the shadows. A question was on his lips before he could think better of it.

“What’s dying feel like?”

Golden Boy’s pistol spun around his finger idly. “You ever been shot, Sauce?”

“Yeah.”

“Feels like that.”

Mogar gave Golden Boy a shove. “That’s not the part he’s asking about, you idiot.” He gave Alfredo a much lighter shove, as though not sure how much was too much. “Doesn’t feel like anything. It hurts, then it doesn’t, and then you wake up somewhere safe and quiet with your friends around you.”

“That doesn't sound so bad.” 

“Nah. It’s not so bad.”

In the distance, something boomed. At least it sounded far away. Alfredo kept his head down as they trailed the wall, using flowering bushes as cover.

“So you don’t, like…” Alfredo gestured as he walked. “...see the light at the end of the tunnel? You don’t give an angel a high-five as you pass?”

“If I do, I don’t remember it.”

“Well. That certainly leaves things open-ended.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Golden Boy pointed suddenly. “Gate!” 

The high stone wall never truly opened up, but it permitted an arched tunnel for expensive cars to drive through. The imposing metal gate that normally blocked it off was opened. Someone, it seemed, had already made their escape here.

The gunfire continued, but never drew any closer as the three men slipped through the archway.

“It’s a long walk back to base,” Mogar remarked as they stepped from the shadow of the arch back into the starlight. The dusty nighttime scrubland sprawled out around them. “But we shouldn’t need to walk all the way. Once we’re far enough out, we’ll radio HQ and ask for pickup--”

The familiar click of a locking gun made Alfredo freeze in place. 

The exit was flanked by a goliath. An armored car was parked just around the corner of the archway, a faceted mountain of steel with a manned turret on top, glinting in the darkness. Half a dozen guards in tinted-visor helmets were lined up like a firing squad, all camo and assault rifles. On top of the armored car, another guard leaned lazily on the mounted gatling gun, keeping the bundle of silver barrels pointed down.

An ambush. They had the look of Ron’s own security team, a small but fortified force.

“Didn’t I tell you, boys?” one of the armored men grunted. “The ship’s sinking and the rats only have one way out. Sooner or later, they’re all gonna try the front door.” 

“Great.” Mogar’s whisper treated the syllable like a four letter word. Like clockwork, he stepped in front of Alfredo. “Show’s over, guys. We killed the big man. No one’s signing your paychecks anymore.”

“Keen observation,” the guard remarked. “The way I see it, there’s a vacancy for the position of drug lord in these parts. I’ve found a couple bright young lads who’ve made the same observation.”

“The competition is busy slaughtering each other inside the walls,” added another. “We’re just here to make sure the job gets done thoroughly.” 

“Reason we haven’t pulled the trigger yet…” Here, the clear leader paused for effect. “...is cause we’re wondering if you’ve made that observation too.”

Golden Boy’s voice was feather-soft, meant for no one’s ears but Alfredo’s. “Mogar’s gonna cover us,” he whispered. “Soon as you hear the first shot, _ haul ass  _ into the darkness _. _ Don’t wait for either of us. I’ll get you out, promise.”

Alfredo didn’t ask how Golden Boy was so sure of Mogar’s plan without needing to speak to him. He also didn’t ask whether they were planning to survive the plan. He gave Golden Boy a barely-there nod.

“So you’re saying I can get on good terms with the new boss in town,” Mogar said loudly, “or die where I stand? Well, twist my arm. In whose name am I killing?”

“Mine,” said the first guard. His gruff voice had mellowed, but not by much. “Smart choice. What about the other two?”

“We’re in!” Golden Boy added quickly.

Alfredo hoped his voice wasn’t cracking. “Yeah, let’s hear it for not dying!”

The guard finally lowered his gun, beckoning them over. “Get in line, aim at the gate. There’s gonna be more coming soon, and it looks like you’ve brought your own guns.” 

The rest of the guards followed his cue, barrels all lowering. Alfredo couldn’t help but notice that the guard on the mounted turret didn’t do the same. The gatling gun was perched above everyone like a vulture, silent until it wasn’t. Mogar didn’t seem to care, strolling confidently towards the line of guards. Alfredo had a horrible feeling he was about to hear the first shot.

The leader’s gun suddenly snapped back up. “Hold up.” 

Mogar froze, hands lifted passively. Alfredo’s legs were so tense with the urge to bolt they were almost shaking. 

“Now that I’m looking at you, I’m realizing you weren’t on the guest list,” grunted the guard. “I recognize those stars; you’re Fakes.”

“Lucky you,” Mogar said smoothly, “looks like you just recruited a Fake. A paycheck’s a paycheck.” 

“Yeah, except Fakes don’t turn. Everyone knows that.”

“Want me to prove it?” Mogar pulled the gun from his belt and pointed it at Golden Boy. “I kill on your command, now. Say the word and I’ll start with him.”

Golden Boy’s flinch of horror was eerily convincing. “M-Mogey--!”

The lead guard didn’t move. His rifle was still lifted, still trained on Mogar’s chest.

“Not him,” he said. “Kill the other one.”

Alfredo’s stomach dropped. Mogar didn’t move, his gun still pointed at Golden Boy, his face unreadable behind his mask. For one sickening heartbeat, Alfredo wished he could see Mogar’s face. Just to know for sure.

Mogar whispered, so softly that Alfredo wasn’t sure if the guards heard it. “Shit.”

“That’s what I thought. Fakes don’t turn.” The guard was raising his voice, the rest of firing squad raising their guns. “Looks like we’re not getting any new recruits out of this batch, boys.” 

Mogar’s voice was hot. “If you know we don’t turn, then you know we don’t die! Think real fuckin’ carefully about the impression you leave on me, cause you’re gonna see this green star again!” 

“Ron knew better than that!” one of the guards shot back.

The leader scoffed. “Oh, I think we can all start forgetting the name Ron Gold. When you knock on the gates of Hell, you can tell ‘em you were sent there by —“

The gatling gun moved.

The guard at the turret tilted the barrel down and sent a thunder of bullets into the backs of the firing squad. Alfredo’s jaw dropped along with the bodies. He had a feeling that Mogar and Golden Boy were suffering the same.

It was the first shot, but he sure as shit wasn’t running.

The heavy brass of gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had started. Not a single bullet had gotten within ten feet of the Fakes, but the ground troops were killed to a man. The guard at the turret straightened up with a satisfied sigh, lifting their helmet. Soft russet hair spilled out, and a beautiful woman gave them a smile. Alfredo recognized those bright eyes; he had first seen them through the holes of a hockey mask.

“Hello, boys!” she called. “One wild card, at your service!”

Golden Boy laughed, the sound echoing across the dusky scrubland. “Wheels, you lunatic, I’m gonna climb up there and kiss you!”

“Hold that kiss, I’m coming right down.” Wheels reached into her baggy camo jacket and slipped out a hockey mask with a star. “You want a ride out of here? I bet this thing accelerates like shit, but it’ll get the job done.”

“Cheers, love!”

Despite how ready he had been to bolt, Alfredo had to remind his legs to move, to carry him to the door of the armored car. At long, long last, he left Ron Gold’s estate behind him.

Alfredo climbed into the back seat as Mogar hauled himself in on the other side. Golden Boy seemed to have claimed the passenger’s seat. As he climbed in, he leaned into the driver’s seat, flipped up Wheels’ mask, and gave her the kiss he’d promised. 

Mogar gave Alfredo a dry look. “What, you want a kiss too?”

“Bitch I might,” Alfredo grunted. “I didn’t think I was getting out of there alive.” 

Mogar laughed and slammed the door shut. The engine revved, and the armored car lurched forward and cut around in the sharpest u-turn an armored car had ever made.

Golden Boy had a dreamy look on his face, leaning so far towards Wheels that he seemed to be trying to fall into her lap. “You gonna tell me how you stole an armored car, love?”

“A lovely lady gave me the keys!”

“A lady?”

“She said Rimmy Tim told her to find the Fakes, said we could help her. I got her to the garage safely, she got me some keys.”

Alfredo perked up in his seat. “The secretary, she made it? She got out?”

“Yep. Took a car and drove off. I made sure.” 

Golden Boy slumped in his seat and pouted. “I want in on these cool stories!” 

Without looking away from the road, Wheels ruffled his hair. “Won’t it be more fun to share them at home over drinks?”

“Ooooh, are you buying?”

“I was just gonna drink the booze we already have.”

“Mmm, will you pour it for me and say you’re buying me a drink?”

“Sure, babe. Sure.”

Mogar grabbed the back of a seat to pull himself forward. “Hey Wheels, would you say we’re home free?”

“We’re never home free until we’re in HQ. But…” Wheels gave the engine a playful rev. “I think it’s safe to let out a nice long breath.”

“How about making a call to HQ?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d love to hear from us.”

Mogar leaned back in his seat and touched his com. “This is Mogar, breaking radio silence,” he announced. “Golden Boy, Wheels, and the Sauce are all with me, and we’re clear of the estate. Smegging Ron is dead, I repeat, the bastard is dead! Lay out the welcome mat, we’re coming home!”

Multiple cheers rang through the com, raw with relief. A familiar voice rose above the rest.

_ “This is ghost Rimmy Tim, I knew you guys could do it!” _

Alfredo nearly flung the com out of his ear in an attempt to un-mute it. “Rimmy!”

_ “Hey, Sauce! Didn’t I tell you I’d be back?” _

“You all right?”

_ “All right? I’m good as new! I should be asking if you’re okay!” _

Alfredo exhaled, long and weary, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll be fine as soon as my god damn heart slows down. Is it always like this with you people?”

_ “Oh it’s always a shitshow, but I’ll admit it, this heist hit the fan more than most do.”  _ Rimmy Tim hesitated.  _ “Listen, Sauce, I’m sorry you had to--” _

“Don’t make it weird,” Alfredo interrupted. He liked how Rimmy’s voice sounded now, bright and clear, full of laughter, no pain. Not begging him to squeeze the trigger. “Just… just stop right there, okay? It all worked out. You’re okay.”

_ “Ha, yeah. I’m okay, buddy. Any other ghosts wanna chime in?” _

_ “Ghost Kingpin here. I’m proud to announce that the Ripper will rip no more. Did I look cool going out?” _

_ “Like an action movie, boss. How about you, Vagabond?” _

_ “I’d just like everyone to know that I let myself get caught. It was all a ploy to distract him. Make him cocky.”  _

_ “Uh huh.” _

Alfredo gripped the seat harder. “Trev? You there, babe?”

Rimmy Tim suddenly sounded reluctant.  _ “Wish I could put him on the line, Sauce, but it looks like he left when the coms went dead. I don’t blame him.” _

_ “It’s my fault.”  _ The Kingpin sounded almost ashamed.  _ “I’m afraid I needed a minute to collect myself after I came back. I didn’t know the team had gone dark, I thought Trevor had company. By the time I got upstairs, all I found was a note saying he’d left.”  _

Alfredo sighed. “He’s off stressing somewhere. I’ll give him a call.” 

_ “Do that,”  _ Rimmy Tim urged. _ “And tell him to come back to HQ.” _

“Why?”

_ “Why? Because as we speak, I’m admiring more types of whiskey than you’ve seen in your life, that’s why! Get your boyfriend over here and let’s party!” _

The word sounded out of place. Rimmy Tim said “party” like it would involve cake and confetti. Tension, tight as iron, was still wrapped around Alfredo’s rib cage, squeezing his racing heart. He could hear echoes of gunfire and grenades. He was pretty sure his red hoodie bore the drying stains of Rimmy Tim’s blood.

And Rimmy Tim wanted to  _ party.  _ There was a strange liberation in that.

“Welcome to your first heist with the Fakes, Sauce.” Mogar was wearing a smile that Alfredo had never seen before: all sunshine and no snarl. “There’s always an afterparty.”

————

There were worse times to drink.

Trevor watched a little cluster of bubbles drift along the edge of his beer. The bar was Monday-night quiet, just a few patrons hunched over their drinks. The bartender whistled to himself as he washed glasses clean behind the bar. The beer Trevor had ordered was nice, crisp and drinkable. The atmosphere could hardly be more mellow if it had mood lighting. All the same, Trevor’s stomach was a writhing ball of stress.

There were worse times to drink than the middle of a heist where you could do nothing but helplessly wait, but there sure were better times too.

“You look pretty out of it for a man on his first beer.”

Trevor looked up. The bartender was still scrubbing glasses clean, but he was no longer whistling.

“Just lost in thought,” Trevor lied. He straightened up. “Hey, could I trouble you for some local knowledge? I’m new in town.”

The bartender chuckled. “All right, but I’ll have you know: I recognize a desperate search for distraction when I see it. They teach you that first day in bartender school.”

“Then I appreciate you humoring me.” Trevor leaned on the bar. “Everywhere I go, I keep hearing about the Fake AH Crew. What’s the scoop on them?”

The bartender shrugged without looking up. “Never met ‘em.”

“From what I’ve heard, most living people haven’t.”

The smooth motions of the washcloth paused. The bartender seemed to think for a moment before responding.

“You been around the back of my bar?”

Trevor sipped his beer. “No, why?”

“Used to be some real unkind graffiti back there.” The bartender shrugged as he worked. “Creative suggestions about where people like me belonged. I’d scrub it off, it’d come back the next day, more vulgar than before.”

“Cops wouldn’t help?”

The bartender chuckled at his glass. “The cops have said worse things to me than the graffiti ever did.”

Trevor frowned. He tilted his head towards the taps. “Seems I ought to buy another drink if you’re going to entertain me this long.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Pale ale.” Trevor drummed his fingers against the bar. “So what happened?”

The bartender took a clean glass and held it under the tap until a creamy head foamed at the rim. “One day, I went out back, and there was just one thing painted on the wall: a bright green star.” He set the beer down on the bar, meeting Trevor’s gaze. “Since that day, no spray can has touched my establishment.”

Trevor almost forgot to take the beer. “Do you know why they did it?”

“No idea. Maybe on their off time, the Fakes visit my bar, and they felt protective of the place. Maybe they just don’t tolerate that shit in their city.”

Trevor sipped his beer, turning the words over in his head.  _ The Fakes aren’t the worst thing in Los Santos. Ask someone other than a cop. _

“I have never met the Fakes.” The bartender leaned on the bar, folding his strong arms. “But if I ever do, they’ll have a round on the house.”

“Heh.” Trevor set his beer down. “If I ever meet them, I’ll let them know.” 

His phone buzzed.

Trevor almost over knocked his new beer in his haste to pull his phone out. The number that flashed on the screen wasn’t in his contacts, but he had it memorized. As though sensing his need for privacy, the bartender drifted back to his work as Trevor struggled to answer the phone and lift it to his ear.

He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but how could he when his heart was pounding in his throat?

“B-babe?”

_ “We did it.” _

Relief washed over Trevor like spring rain. He leaned on the bar with a long, long breath. At last, the horrible tension in his belly began to loosen.

_ “He’s dead.”  _ Alfredo was still talking, as though he could sense that Trevor needed the sound of his voice more than air right now.  _ “I did it myself. I think I said something clever too, I forget what, it’s kind of a blur. Somethin’ spicy. Lemme tell you: popping that bastard was satisfying as shit. Takes the tension right out of your shoulders.” _

The brightness of Alfredo’s voice had already answered the question, but Trevor needed to ask it anyway. “And you’re okay?”

_ “I’m okay. We’re all okay.” _

The pronoun was unexpected. “We?”

Alfredo was quiet. Trevor rested his chin in his hand, reading the silence. He recognized the warm, excited tone in Alfredo’s voice. He’d heard it once before, long ago.

_ “…The Fakes are all right, Trev,”  _ Alfredo admitted at last, sheepishly.  _ “They, I mean… Look, you know why I work alone.”  _

“Mmm-hm. You told me, back when we first met.” A wistful smile was on Trevor’s face. “It’s because you’re a sucker. The moment you stop working alone, you end up with partners.” 

_ “And look how that worked out with you.”  _

“Heh. You can’t peel me off you.” Trevor pressed the phone closer to his smile, hushing his voice. “Wanna celebrate tonight?”

_ “About that…”  _ Again, Alfredo sounded sheepish.  _ “There’s, uh, kind of a party happening back at HQ. Or something. They keep — shut up, Mogar, I’m getting to it — they keep telling me to say you’re invited.” _

In the background over the phone, the now-familiar voice of Mogar shouted.  _ “Hey, no blindfolds this time! Promise!” _

“Well, Wheels  _ does  _ owe me a coffee,” Trevor admitted distantly. “And I think I owe the Kingpin a conversation about taxes.”

_ “…I’m not even gonna ask.” _

“Tell them I’m coming over. I’ll see you soon, babe?”

_ “You’d better. Love you.” _

“Love you too.”

The phone went quiet, but Trevor would have needed a crowbar to pry the smile off his face. Someone must have turned up the thermostat. The bar was glowing with warmth.

“Must have been a good phone call,” the barkeep remarked.

“It was.” Trevor pulled a bill out of his wallet and slid it across the bar. “Keep the change, for being kind enough to distract me. And for the perspective.”

“Perspective?”

Trevor slipped off his bar stool. “I’m starting to feel a lot less new in town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: 
> 
> Those of you who don’t follow me on tumblr may have not seen this announcement: I’m removing Ryan from the respawn verse canon. I promise there’s happy news in this post, keep reading.
> 
> This is a respawn-specific change: Ryan will still be part of certain other verses for a variety of personal reasons. At this time, I have no plans to remove any stories from my account; everything that’s currently up will stay up.   
> I know this news will make some people sad. Believe me, it was a hard choice, and I thought about it for a long time. This character is very important to me. I may write him again in “unofficial” respawn stories, so please don’t consider him completely gone. I just want my primary verse to be fully formed without relying on him.
> 
> Now for the good news:
> 
> Understandably, this change will mean some restructuring of the respawn canon, which is a challenge I’m excited to rise to. I always had a few regrets about how I wrote the lore. This is an opportunity to fix those regrets and polish up the verse. For instance: Although this version of New In Town will stay up, I’ll also be releasing an alternative version of the entire story where everything is the same except that Ryan is swapped out for Lindsay. This will be the new “canon” version. (One of my aforementioned regrets is not including Lindsay earlier in the chronological events of respawn. In my restructuring of canon, they’ll be a pre-Jeremy Fake.) 
> 
> I’ve already started work on this version and… guys, it kicks ass. Lindsay fills the narrative niche beautifully, in an excitingly different way. I’ll post the new version as soon as it’s ready. Even though most of the story will be unchanged, there are going to be some interesting differences that I think will make a reread completely worth it.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with this story. It’s been such a joy to write and I look forward to my next big respawn verse project. I won’t give anything away, but it’s been under construction for a few months now and it will continue to expand on this universe.
> 
> \- Wren


End file.
